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WORKS.  New  Riverside  Edition.  With  several 
Portraits  of  Burroughs,  and  engraved  Title-pages. 
Printed  from  entirely  new  plates.  lo  vols,  izmo, 
cloth,  gilt  top,  the  set,  Ifis-oo,  net  ;  uncut,  paper 
labels,  $15.00,  net;  half  calf,  gilt  top,  $30-00.  net. 

RiVERBY. 

Wake-Robin. 

Winter  Sunshine. 

Locusts  and  Wild  Honey. 

Fresh  Fields. 

Indoor  Studies. 

Birds  and  Poets,  with  Other  Papers. 

Pep  acton,  and  Other  Sketches. 

Signs  and  Seasons. 

Whitman  :  A  Study. 

The  Same.  Each  volume,  i6mo,  gilt  top,  $1.25;  the 
set,  10  vols.,  uniform,  $12.50;  half  calf,  $22.50. 

WAKE-ROBIN.  Riverside  Aldine  Series.  i6mo, 
$1.00. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY, 
Boston  and  New  York. 


RIVERBY 


BY 


JOHN   BURROUGHS 


ptsjmmtm^^ 


BOSTON   AND    NEW    YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN    AND   COMPANY 

1897 


Copyright,  1894, 
By  JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  0.  Houghton  &  Ca 


PEEFATORY  NOTE 

I  HAVE  often  said  to  myself,  ''Why  should 
not  one  name  his  books  as  he  names  his  chil- 
dren, arbitrarily,  and  let  the  name  come  to 
mean  much  or  little,  as  the  case  may  be?'' 
In  the  case  of  the  present  volume  —  probably 
my  last  collection  of  Out-of-door  Papers  —  I 
have  taken  this  course,  and  have  given  to  the 
book  the  name  of  my  place  here  on  the  Hud- 
son, ''Eiverby,"  by  the  river,  where  the 
sketches  were  written,  and  where  for  so  many 
years  I  have  been  an  interested  spectator  of 
the  life  of  nature,  as,  with  the  changing  sea- 
sons, it  has  ebbed  and  flowed  past  my  door. 

J.  B. 


"^ 


X^'^ 


CONTENTS 

PAOB 

Among  the  Wild-Flowers 1 

The  Heart  of  the  Southern  Catskills   .       .       33 

Birds'  Eggs ^^ 

77 


Bird  Courtship  

;  Prairie 

.      112 


Notes  from  the  Prairie 88 


Eye-Beams 

A  Young  Marsh  Hawk 134 

14.5 
The  Chipmunk ^*^ 

Spring  Jottings ^''" 

Glimpses  of  Wild  Life 1*^2 

A  Life  of  Fear ^^^ 

nno 

Lovers  of  Nature ^"'^ 

A  Taste  of  Kentucky  Blue-Grass  .        .        •        •  222 

94.9 

In  Mammoth  Cave ^^-^ 

Hasty  Observation ^^^ 

Bird  Life  in  an  Old  Apple-Tree         .        •        .273 

The  Ways  of  Sportsmen 280 

Talks  with  Young  Observers      ....      285 


K^C-StoteC 


RIVERBY 

AMONG   THE   WILD-FLOWERS 


Nearly  every  season  I  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  one  or  more  new  flowers.  It  takes 
years  to  exhaust  the  botanical  treasures  of  any 
one  considerable  neighborhood,  unless  one 
makes  a  dead  set  at  it,  like  an  herbalist.  One 
likes  to  have  his  floral  acquaintances  come  to 
him  easily  and  naturally,  like  his  other  friends. 
Some  pleasant  occasion  should  bring  you  to- 
gether. You  meet  in  a  walk,  or  touch  elbows 
on  a  picnic  under  a  tree,  or  get  acquainted  on 
a  fishing  or  camping-out  expedition.  What 
comes  to  you  in  the  way  of  birds  or  flowers 
while  wooing  only  the  large  spirit  of  open-air 
nature  seems  like  special  good  fortune.  At 
any  rate,  one  does  not  want  to  bolt  his  botany, 
but  rather  to  prolong  the  course.  One  likes  to 
have  something  in  reserve,  something  to  be  on 
the  lookout  for  on  his  walks.  I  have  never 
yet  found  the  orchid  called  Calypso,  a  large, 
variegated  purple  and  yellow  flower.  Gray  says, 
which  grows  in  cold,  wet  woods  and  bogs,  very 
beautiful,  and  very  rare.  Calypso,  you  know, 
was  the  nymph  who  fell  in  love  with  Ulysses 


2  AMONG   THE   WILD-FLOWERS 

and  detained  him  seven  years  upon  her  island, 
and  died  of  a  broken  heart  after  he  left  her.  1 
have  a  keen  desire  to  see  her  in  her  floral  guise, 
reigning  over  some  silent  bog,  or  rising  above 
the  moss  of  some  dark  glen  in  the  woods,  and 
would  gladly  be  the  Ulysses  .to  be  detained  at 
least  a  few  hours  by  her. 

I  will  describe  her  by  the  aid  of  Gray,  so 
that  if  any  of  my  readers  come  across  her  they 
may  know  what  a  rarity  they  have  found.  She 
may  be  looked  for  in  cold,  mossy,  boggy  places 
in  our  Northern  woods.  You  will  see  a  low 
flower  somewhat  like  a  lady's  slipper;  that  is, 
with  an  inflated  sac-shaped  lip,  the  petals  and 
sepals  much  alike,  rising  and  spreading,  the 
color  mingled  purple  and  yellow,  the  stem,  or 
scape,  from  three  to  five  inches  high,  with  but 
©ne  leaf,  —  that  one  thin  and  slightly  heart- 
shaped,  with  a  stem  which  starts  from  a  solid 
bulb.  That  is  the  nymph  of  our  boggy  soli- 
tudes, waiting  to  break  her  heart  for  any  adven- 
turous hero  who  may  penetrate  her  domain. 

Several  of  our  harmless  little  wild-flowers 
have  been  absurdly  named  out  of  the  old 
mythologies:  thus,  Indian  cucumber  root,  one 
of  Thoreau's  favorite  flowers,  is  named  after 
the  sorceress  Medea,  and  is  called  "medeola," 
because  it  was  at  one  time  thought  to  possess 
rare  medicinal  properties;  and  medicine  and 
sorcery  have  always  been  more  or  less  con- 
founded in  the  opinion  of  mankind.  It  is  a 
pretty  and  decorative  sort  of  plant,  with,  when 
perfect,  two  stages  or  platforms  of  leaves,  one 


AMONG   THE    WILD-FLOWERS  3 

above  the  other.  You  see  a  whorl  of  five  or 
six  leaves,  a  foot  or  more  from  the  ground, 
which  seems  to  bear  a  standard  with  another 
whorl  of  three  leaves  at  the  top  of  it.  The 
small,  colorless,  recurvecj  flowers  shoot  out 
from  above  this  top  whorl.  The  whole  expres- 
sion of  the  plant  is  singularly  slender  and  grace- 
ful. Sometimes,  probably  the  first  year,  it 
only  attains  to  the  first  circle  of  leaves.  This 
is  the  platform  from  which  it  will  rear  its 
flower  column  the  next  year.  Its  white, 
tuberous  root  is  crisp  and  tender,  and  leaves  in 
the  mouth  distinctly  the  taste  of  cucumber. 
Whether  or  not  the  Indians  used  it  as  a  relish 
as  we  do  the  cucumber,  I  do  not  know. 

Still  another  pretty  flower  that  perpetuates 
the  name  of  a  Grecian  nymph,  a  flower  that  was 
a  new  find  to  me  a  few  summers  ago,  is  the  Are- 
thusa.  Arethusa  was  one  of  the  nymphs  who 
attended  Diana,  and  was  by  that  goddess  turned 
into  a  fountain,  that  she  might  escape  the  god 
of  the  river  Alpheus,  who  became  desperately 
in  love  with  her  on  seeing  her  at  her  bath. 
Our  Arethusa  is  one  of  the  prettiest  of  the 
orchids,  and  has  been  pursued  through  many  a 
marsh  and  quaking  bog  by  her  lovers.  She  is 
a  bright  pink-purple  flower  an  inch  or  more 
long,  with  the  odor  of  sweet  violets.  The 
sepals  and  petals  rise  up  and  arch  over  the 
column,  which  we  may  call  the  heart  of  the 
flower,  as  if  shielding  it.  In  Plymouth  County, 
Massachusetts,  where  the  Arethusa  seems  com- 
mon, I  have  heard  it  called  Indian  pink. 


4  AMONG   THE    WILD-FLOWERS 

But  I  was  going  to  recount  my  new  finds. 
One  sprang  up  in  the  footsteps  of  that  destroy- 
ing angel,  Dynamite.  A  new  railroad  cut 
across  my  tramping-ground,  with  its  hordes  of 
Italian  laborers  and  its  mountains  of  giant- 
powder,  etc.,  was  enough  to  banish  all  the 
gentler  deities  forever  from  the  place.  But  it 
did  not.  Scarcely  had  the  earthquake  passed 
when,  walking  at  the  base  of  a  rocky  cliff  that 
had  been  partly  blown  away  in  the  search  for 
stone  for  two  huge  abutments  that  stood  near 
by,  I  beheld  the  ddbris  at  the  base  of  the  cliflf 
draped  and  festooned  by  one  of  our  most  beau- 
tiful foliage  plants,  and  one  I  had  long  been  on 
the  lookout  for,  namely,  the  climbing  fumitory. 
It  was  growing  everywhere  in  the  greatest  pro- 
fusion, affording  by  its  tenderness,  delicacy, 
and  grace  the  most  striking  contrast  to  the 
destruction  the  black  giant  had  wrought.  The 
power  that  had  smote  the  rock  seemed  to  have 
called  it  into  being.  Probably  the  seeds  had 
lain  dormant  in  cracks  and  crevices  for  years, 
and  when  the  catastrophe  came,  and  they  found 
themselves  in  new  soil  amid  the  wreck  of  the 
old  order  of  things,  they  sprang  into  new  life, 
and  grew  as  if  the  world  had  been  created  anew 
for  them,  as,  in  a  sense,  it  had.  Certainly, 
they  grew  most  luxuriantly,  and  never  was  the 
ruin  wrought  by  powder  veiled  by  more  deli- 
cate lace-like  foliage.  ^     The  panicles  of  droop- 

1  Strange  to  say,  the  plant  did  not  appear  in  that  locality 
the  next  season,  and  has  never  appeared  since.  Perhaps  it 
will  take  another  dynamite  earthquake  to  wake  it  up. 


AMONG   THE   WILD-FLOWERS  5 

ing,  pale  flesh-colored  flowers  heightened  the 
efi'ect  of  the  whole.  This  plant  is  a  regular 
climher;  it  has  no  extra  appendages  for  that 
purpose,  and  does  not  wind,  but  climbs  by 
means  of  its  young  leaf-stalks,  which  lay  hold 
like  tiny  hands  or  hooks.  The  end  of  every 
branch  is  armed  with  a  multitude  of  these  baby 
hands.  The  flowers  are  pendent  and  swing 
like  ear  jewels.  They  are  slightly  heart- 
shaped,  and  when  examined  closely  look  like 
little  pockets  made  of  crumpled  silk,  nearly 
white  on  the  inside,  or  under  side,  and  pale 
purple  on  the  side  toward  the  light,  and  shirred 
up  at  the  bottom.  And  pockets  they  are  in 
quite  a  literal  sense,  for,  though  they  fade, 
they  do  not  fall,  but  become  pockets  full  of 
seeds.  The  fumitory  is  a  perpetual  bloomer 
from  July  till  killed  by  the  autumn  frosts. 

The  closely  allied  species  of  this  plant,  the 
dicentra  (Dutchman's  breeches  and  squirrel 
corn),  are  much  more  common,  and  are  among 
our  prettiest  spring  flowers.  I  have  an  eye  out 
for  the  white-hearts  (related  to  the  bleeding- 
hearts  of  the  gardens,  and  absurdly  called 
"Dutchman's  breeches")  the  last  week  in 
April.  It  is  a  rock-loving  plant,  and  springs 
up  on  the  shelves  of  the  ledges  or  in  the  dt^bris 
at  their  base  as  if  by  magic.  As  soon  as  blood- 
root  has  begun  to  star  the  Avaste,  stony  places, 
and  the  first  swallow  has  been  heard  in  the 
sky,  we  are  on  the  lookout  for  dicentra.  The 
more  northern  species,  called  "squirrel  corn" 
from  the  small  golden  tubers  at  its  root,  ])looms 


6  AMONG   THE   WILD-FLOWERS 

in  May,  and  has  the  fragrance  of  hyacinths. 
It  does  not  affect  the  rocks,  like  all  the  other 
flowers  of  this  family. 

My  second  new  acquaintance  the  same  season 
was  the  showy  lady's  slipper.     Most  of  the  floral 
ladies  leave  their  slippers  in  swampy  places  in 
the    woods  ;     only   the    stemless    one    (acaule) 
leaves  hers  on  dry  ground  before   she  reaches 
the  swamp,    commonly  under  evergreen   trees, 
where  the  carpet  of  pine  needles  will  not  hurt 
her  feet.      But  one  may  penetrate   many  wet, 
mucky  places  in  the  woods  before  he  finds  the 
prettiest  of  them  all,  the  showy  lady's  slipper, 
—  the   prettiest   slipper,    but   the   stoute<«t  and 
coarsest     plant;    the     flower    large    and    very 
showy,  white,  tinged  with  purple  in  f ront^ :  the 
stem   two   feet   high,    very   leafy,    and    coarser 
than    bear-weed.      Report    had    come    to    me 
through    my    botanizing    neighbor,    that    in    a 
certain  quaking   sphagnum   bog   in    the  woods 
the  showy  lady's  slipper  could  be  found.      "The 
locality  proved  to  be  the  marrowy  grave  of  an 
extinct  lake  or  black  tarn.      On  the  borders  of 
it  the  white  azalea  was  in  bloom,  fast  fading. 
In  the  midst  of  it  were  spruces  and  black  ash 
and  giant  ferns,  and  low  in  the  spongy,  mossr 
bottom,  the  pitcher  plant.      The  lady's  slipper 
grew  in  little  groups  and  companies  all  about 
Never  have  I  beheld  a  prettier  sight,  —  so  gay, 
so  festive,   so  holiday-looking.      Were  they  so 
many  gay  bonnets  rising  above  the  foliage,  or 
were  they  flocks  of  white  doves  with  purple- 
stained  breasts  just  lifting  up  their  wings .  to 


AMONG   THE   WILD-FLOWERS  7 

take  flight,  or  were  they  little  fleets  of  fairy 
boats,  with  sail  set,  tossing  on  a  mimic  sea  of 
wild  weedy  growths  ?  Such  images  throng  the 
mind  on  recalling  the  scene,  and  only  faintly 
hint  its  beauty  and  animation.  The  long, 
erect,  white  se23als  do  much  to  give  the  alert, 
tossing  look  which  the  flower  wears.  The  dim 
light,  too,  of  its  secluded  haunts,  and  its  snowy 
purity  and  freshness,  contribute  to  the  impres- 
sion it  makes.  The  purple  tinge  is  like  a  stain 
of  wine  which  has  slightly  overflowed  the  brim 
of  the  inflated  lip  or  sac  and  run  part  way 
down  its  snowy  sides. 

This  lady's  slipper  is  one  of  the  rarest  and 
choicest  of  our  wild-flowers,  and  its  haunts  and 
its  beauty  are  known  only  to  the  few.  Those 
who  have  the  secret  guard  it  closely,  lest  their 
favorite  be  exterminated.  A  well-known  bot- 
anist in  one  of  the  large  New  England  cities 
told  me  that  it  was  found  in  but  one  place  in 
that  neighborhood,  and  that  the  secret,  so  far 
as  he  knew,  was  known  to  but  three  persons, 
and  was  carefully  kept  by  them. 

A  friend  of  mine,  an  enthusiast  on  orchids, 
came  one  June  day  a  long  way  by  rail,  to  see 
this  flower.  I  conducted  him  to  the  edge  of  the 
swamp,  lifted  up  the  branches  as  I  would  a 
curtain,  and  said,  ''There  they  are." 

"Where? "  said  he,  peering  far  into  the  dim 
recesses. 

"Within  six  feet  of  you,"  I  replied. 

He  narrowed  his  vision,  and  such  an  expres- 
sion of  surprise  and  delight  as  came   over  his 


8  AMONG   THE    WILD-FLOWERS 

face  !  A  group  of  a  dozen  or  more  of  the 
plants,  some  of  them  twin-flowered,  were  there 
almost  within  reach,  the  first  he  had  ever  seen, 
and  his  appreciation  of  the  scene,  visible  in 
every  look  and  gesture,  was  greatly  satisfying. 
In  the  fall  he  came  and  moved  a  few  of  the 
plants  to  a  tamarack  swamp  in  his  own  vicinity, 
where  they  throve  and  bloomed  finely  for  a  few 
years,  and  then  for  some  unknown  reason  failed. 
Nearly  every  June,  my  friend  still  comes  to 
feast  his  eyes  upon  this  queen  of  the  cypripe- 
diums. 

While  returning  from  my  first  search  for  the 
lady's  slipper,  my  hat  fairly  brushed  the  nest 
of  the  red-eyed  vireo,  which  was  so  cunningly 
concealed,  such  an  open  secret,  in  the  dim, 
leafless  underwoods,  that  I  could  but  pause  and 
regard  it.  It  was  suspended  from  the  end  of 
a  small,  curving  sapling,  was  flecked  here  and 
there  by  some  whitish  substance  so  as  to  blend 
it  with  the  gray  mottled  boles  of  the  trees, 
and,  in  the  dimly  lighted  ground-floor  of  the 
woods,  was  sure  to  escape  any  but  the  most 
prolonged  scrutiny.  A  couple  of  large  leaves 
formed  a  canopy  above  it.  It  was  not  so  much 
hidden  as  it  was  rendered  invisible  by  texture 
and  position  with  reference  to  light  and  shade. 

A  few  summers  ago  I  struck  a  new  and  beau- 
tiful plant,  in  the  shape  of  a  weed  that  had 
only  recently  appeared  in  that  part  of  the  coun- 
try. I  was  walking  through  an  August  meadow 
when  I  saw,  on  a  little  knoll,  a  bit  of  most 
vivid  orange,   verging  on  a  crimson.      I  knew 


AMONG   THE   WILD-FLOWERS  9 

of  no  flower  of  such  a  complexion  frequenting 
such  a  place  as  that.  On  investigation,  it 
proved  to  be  a'  stranger.  It  had  a  rough, 
hairy,  leafless  stem  about  a  foot  high,  sur- 
mounted by  a  corymbose  cluster  of  flowers  or 
flower-heads  of  dark  vivid  orange-color.  The 
leaves  were  deeply  notched  and  toothed,  very 
bristly,  and  were  pressed  flat  to  the  ground. 
The  whole  plant  was  a  veritable  Esau  for  hairs, 
and  it  seemed  to  lay  hold  upon  the  ground  as 
if  it  was  not  going  to  let  go  easily.  And  what 
a  fiery  plume  it  had!  The  next  day,  in  an- 
other field  a  mile  away,  I  chanced  upon  more 
of  the  flowers.  On  making  inquiry,  I  found 
that  a  small  patch  or  colony  of  the  plants  had 
appeared  that  season,  or  first  been  noticed  then, 
in  a  meadow  well  known  to  me  from  boyhood. 
They  had  been  cut  down  with  the  grass  in  early 
July,  and  the  first  week  in  August  had  shot  up 
and  bloomed  again.  I  found  the  spot  aflame 
with  them.  Their  leaves  covered  every  inch  of 
the  surface  where  they  stood,  and  not  a  spear 
of  grass  grew  there.  They  were  taking  slow 
but  complete  possession;  they  were  devouring 
the  meadow  by  inches.  The  plant  seemed  to 
be  a  species  of  hieracium,  or  hawkweed,  or  some 
closely  allied  species  of  the  composite  family, 
but  I  could  not  find  it  mentioned  in  our  bot- 
anies. 

A  few  days  later,  on  the  edge  of  an  adjoin- 
ing county  ten  miles  distant,  I  found,  probably, 
its  headquarters.  It  had  appeared  there  a  few 
years  before,  and  was  thought  to  have  escaped 


10  AMONG   THE   WILD-FLOWERS 

from  some  farmer's  door-yard.  Patches  of  it 
were  appearing  here  and  there  in  the  fields,  and 
the  farmers  were  thoroughly  alive  to  the  danger 
and  were  fighting  it  like  fire.  Its  seeds  are 
winged  like  those  of  the  dandelion,  and  it  sows 
itself  far  and  near.  It  would  be  a  beautiful 
acquisition  to  our  midsummer  fields,  supplying 
a  tint  as  brilliant  as  that  given  by  the  scarlet 
poppies  to  English  grain-fields.  But  it  would 
be  an  expensive  one,  as  it  usurps  the  land  com- 
pletely. ^ 

Parts  of  New  England  have  already  a  mid- 
summer flower  nearly  as  brilliant  and  probably 
far  less  aggressive  and  noxious,  in  meadow 
beauty,  or  rhexia,  the  sole  northern  genus  of  a 
family  of  tropical  plants.  I  found  it  very 
abundant  in  August  in  the  country  bordering 
on  Buzzard's  Bay.  It  was  a  new  flower  to  me, 
and  I  was  puzzled  to  make  it  out.  It  seemed 
like  some  sort  of  scarlet  evening-primrose. 
The  parts  were  in  fours,  the  petals  slightly 
heart-shaped  and  convoluted  in  the  bud,  the 
leaves  bristly,  the  calyx-tube  prolonged,  etc. ; 
but  the  stem  was  square,  the  leaves  opposite, 
and  the  tube  urn- shaped.  The  flowers  were 
an  inch  across,  and  bright  purple  or  scarlet.  It 
grew  in  large  patches  in  dry,  sandy  fields,  mak- 
ing the  desert  gay  with  color;  and  also  on  the 
edges  of  marshy  places.      It  eclipses  any  flower 

1  This  observation  was  made  ten  years  ago.  T  have  since 
learned  that  the  plant  is  Hieracium  aurantiacum  from 
Europe,  a  kind  of  hawkweed.  It  is  fast  becoming  a  com- 
mon weed  in  New  York  and  New  England. 


AMONG   THE    WILD-FLOWERS  11 

of  the  open  fields  known  to  me  farther  inland. 
When  we  come  to  improve  our  wild  garden,  as 
recommended  by  Mr.  Robinson  in  his  book  on 
wild  gardening,  we  must  not  forget  the  rhexia. 

Our  seacoast  flowers  are  probably  more  bril- 
liant in  color  than  the  same  flowers  in  the  inte- 
rior. I  thought  the  wild  rose  on  the  Massa- 
chusetts coast  deeper  tinted  and  more  fragrant 
than  those  I  was  used  to.  The  steeple-bush, 
or  hardback,  had  more  color,  as  had  the  rose- 
gerardia  and  several  other  plants. 

But  when  vivid  color  is  wanted,  what  can 
surpass  or  equal  our  cardinal-flower?  There  h 
a  glow  about  this  flower  as  if  color  emanated 
from  it  as  from  a  live  coal.  The  eye  is  baflled 
and  does  not  seem  to  reach  the  surface  of  the 
petal;  it  does  not  see  the  texture  or  material 
part  as  it  does  in  other  flowers,  but  rests  in  a 
steady,  still  radiance.  It  is  not  so  much  some- 
thing colored  as  it  is  color  itself.  And  then 
the  moist,  cool,  shady  places  it  aff'ects,  usually 
where  it  has  no  floral  rivals,  and  where  the 
large,  dark  shadows  need  just  such  a  dab  of  fire. 
Often,  too,  we  see  it  double,  its  reflected  image 
in  some  dark  pool  heightening  its  effect.  I 
have  never  found  it  with  its  only  rival  in  color, 
the  monarda  or  bee-balm,  a  species  of  mint. 
Farther  north,  the  cardinal-flower  seems  to  fail, 
and  the  monarda  takes  its  place,  growing  in 
similar  localities.  One  may  see  it  about  a 
mountain  spring,  or  along  a  meadow  brook,  or 
glowing  in  the  shade  around  the  head  of  a  wild 
mountain  lake       It  stands  up  two  feet  high  or 


12  AMONG   THE   WILD-FLOWERS 

more,  and  the  flowers  show  like  a  broad  scarlet 
cap. 

The  only  thing  I  have  seen  in  this  country 
that  calls  to  mind  the  green  grain-fields  of 
Britain  splashed  with  scarlet  poppies  may  be 
witnessed  in  August  in  the  marshes  of  the 
lower  Hudson,  when  the  broad  sedgy  and  flaggy 
spaces  are  sprinkled  with  the  great  marsh-mal- 
low. It  is  a  most  pleasing  spectacle,  — level 
stretches  of  dark  green  flag  or  waving  marsh- 
grass  kindled  on  every  square  yard  by  these 
bright  pink  blossoms  like  great  burning  coals 
fanned  in  the  breeze.  The  mallow  is  not  so 
deeply  colored  as  the  poppy,  but  it  is  much 
larger,  and  has  the  tint  of  youth  and  happiness. 
It  is  an  immigrant  from  Europe,  but  it  is  mak- 
ing itself  thoroughly  at  home  in  our  great  river 
meadows. 

The  same  day  your  eye  is  attracted  by  the 
mallows:  as  your  train  skirts  or  cuts  through 
the  broad  marshes,  it  will  revel  with  delight  in 
the  masses  of  fresh  bright  color  afforded  by  the 
purple  loosestrife,  which  grows  in  similar  locali- 
ties, and  shows  here  and  there  like  purple  bon- 
fires. It  is  a  tall  plant,  grows  in  dense  masses, 
and  affords  a  most  striking  border  to  the  broad 
spaces  dotted  with  the  mallow.  It,  too,  came 
to  us  from  over  seas,  and  first  appeared  along 
the  Wallkill,  many  years  ago.  It  used  to  be 
thought  by  the  farmers  in  that  vicinity  that  its 
seed  was  first  brought  in  wool  imported  to  this 
country  from  Australia,  and  washed  in  the 
Wallkill  at  Walden,  where  there  was  a  woolen 


AMONG   THE    WILD-FLOWERS  13 

factory.  This  is  not  probable,  as  it  is  a  Euro- 
pean species,  and  I  should  sooner  think  it  had 
escaped  from  cultivation.  If  one  were  to  act 
upon  the  suggestions  of  Robinson's  "Wild 
Garden,"  already  alluded  to,  he  would  gather 
the  seeds  of  these  plants  and  sow  them  in  the 
marshes  and  along  the  sluggish  inland  streams, 
till  the  banks  of  all  our  rivers  were  gay  with 
these  brilliant  exotics. 

Among  our  native  plants,  the  one  that  takes 
broad  marshes  to  itself  and  presents  vast  sheets 
of  color  is  the  marsh  milkweed,  far  less  bril- 
liant than  the  loosestrife  or  the  mallow ;  still  a 
missionary  in  the  wilderness,  lighting  up  many 
waste  places  with  its  humbler  tints  of  purple. 

One  sometimes  seems  to  discover  a  familiar 
wild-flower  anew  by  coming  upon  it  in  some 
peculiar  and  striking  situation.  Our  columbine 
is  at  all  times  and  in  all  places  one  of  the  most 
exquisitely  beautiful  of  flowers;  yet  one  spring 
day,  when  I  saw  it  growing  out  of  a  small  seam 
on  the  face  of  a  great  lichen- covered  wall  of 
rock,  where  no  soil  or  mould  was  visible,  —  a 
jet  of  foliage  and  color  shooting  out  of  a  black 
line  on  the  face  of  a  perpendicular  mountain 
wall  and  rising  up  like  a  tiny  fountain,  its 
drops  turning  to  flame-colored  jewels  that  hung 
and  danced  in  the  air  against  the  gray  rocky 
surface,  —  its  beauty  became  something  magical 
and  audacious.  On  little  narrow  shelves  in  the 
rocky  wall  the  corydalis  was  blooming,  and 
among  the  loose  boulders  at  its  base  the  blood- 
root  shone  conspicuous,  suggesting  snow  rather 
than  anything  more  sanguine. 


14  AMONG   THE   WILD-FLOWERS 

Certain  flowers  one  makes  special  expeditions 
for  every  season.  They  are  limited  in  their 
ranges,  and  must  generally  be  sought  for  in 
particular  haunts.  How  many  excursions  to 
the  woods  does  the  delicious  trailing  arbutus 
give  rise  to !  How  can  one  let  the  spring  go 
by  without  gathering  it  himself  when  it  hides 
in  the  moss!  There  are  arbutus  days  in  one's 
calendar,  days  when  the  trailing  flower  fairly 
calls  him  to  the  woods.  With  me,  they  come 
the  latter  part  of  April.  The  grass  is  greening 
here  and  there  on  the  moist  slopes  and  by  the 
spring  runs;  the  first  furrow  has  been  struck 
by  the  farmer;  the  liverleaf  is  in  the  height  of 
its  beauty,  and  the  bright  constellations  of  the 
bloodroot  shine  out  here  and  there;  one  has 
had  his  first  taste  and  his  second  taste  of  the 
spring  and  of  the  woods,  and  his  tongue  is 
sharpened  rather  than  cloyed.  Now  he  will 
take  the  most  delicious  and  satisfying  draught 
of  all,  the  very  essence  and  soul  of  the  early 
season,  of  the  tender  brooding  days,  with  all 
their  prophecies  and  awakenings,  in  the  handful 
of  trailing  arbutus  which  he  gathers  in  his 
walk.  At  the  mere  thought  of  it,  one  sees  the 
sunlight  flooding  the  woods,  smells  the  warm 
earthy  odors  which  the  heat  liberates  from  be- 
neath the  dry  leaves,  hears  the  mellow  bass  of 
the  first  bumble-bee, 

"  Rover  of  the  underwoods," 

or  the  finer  chord  of  the  adventurous  honey- 
bee  seeking   store   for  his  empty  comb.      The 


AMONG    THE    WILD-FLOWEKS  15 

arriving  swallows  twitter  above  the  woods;  the 
first  chewink  rustles  the  dry  leaves;  the  north- 
ward bound  thrushes,  the  hermit  and  the  gray- 
cheeked,  flit  here  and  there  before  you.  The 
robin,  the  sparrow,  and  the  bluebird  are  building 
their  first  nests,  and  the  first  shad  are  making 
their  way  slowly  up  the  Hudson.  Indeed,  the 
season  is  fairly  under  way  when  the  trailing 
arbutus  comes.  Now  look  out  for  troops  of 
boys  and  girls  going  to  the  woods  to  gather  it! 
and  let  them  look  out  that  in  their  greed  they 
do  not  exterminate  it.  Within  reach  of  our 
large  towns  the  choicer  spring  wild-flowers  are 
hunted  mercilessly.  Every  fresh  party  from 
town  raids  them  as  if  bent  upon  their  destruc- 
tion. One  day,  about  ten  miles  from  one  of 
our  Hudson  River  cities,  there  got  into  the 
train  six  young  women  loaded  down  with  vast 
sheaves  and  bundles  of  trailing  arbutus.  Each 
one  of  them  had  enough  for  forty.  They  had 
apparently  made  a  clean  sweep  of  the  woods. 
It  was  a  pretty  sight,  —  the  pink  and  white  of 
the  girls  and  the  pink  and  white  of  the  flowers ! 
and  the  car  too  was  suddenly  filled  with  per- 
fume, —  the  breathj  of  spring  loaded  the  air, 
but  I  thought  it  a  pity  to  ravish  the  woods  in 
that  way.  The  next  party  was  probably  equally 
greedy,  and  because  a  handful  was  desirable, 
thought  an  armful  proportionately  so;  till,  by 
and  by,  the  flower  will  be  driven  from  those 
woods. 

Another  flower  that  one  makes  special  excur- 
sions for  is  the  pond  lily.      The  pond  lily  is  a 


16  AMONG   THE   WILD-FLOWERS 

star,    and   easily   takes   the    first    place    among 
lilies;  and  the  expeditions  to  her  haunts,  and 
the  gathering  her  where   she  rocks  upon    the 
dark  secluded  waters  of  some  pool  or  lakelet, 
are  the  crown  and  summit  of  the  floral  expedi- 
tions of  summer.      It  .is  the   expedition  about 
which    more    things    gather    than    almost    any 
other:  you    want    your    boat,    you    want    your 
lunch,    you  want  your  friend  or  friends  with 
you.      You  are  going  to  put  in  the  greater  part 
of    the    day;  you    are  going   to   picnic   in   the 
woods,  and  indulge  in  a  "green  thought  in  a 
green  shade."     When  my  friend  and  I  go  for 
pond  lilies,  we  have  to  traverse  a  distance  of 
three  miles  with  our  boat  in  a  wagon.      The 
road  is  what  is  called  a  "back  road,"  and  leads 
through  woods  most  of  the  way.      Black  Pond, 
where  the  lilies  grow,  lies  about  one  hundred 
feet  higher  than  the  Hudson,  from  which  it  is 
separated   by   a   range   of   rather    bold   wooded 
heights,    one   of    which   might   well    be    called 
Mount  Hymettus,  for  I  have  found  a  great  deal 
of  wild  honey  in  the  forest  that  covers  it.     The 
stream   which   flows   out  of   the   pond  takes  a 
northward  course  for  two  or  three  miles,  till  it 
finds  an  opening  through  the  rocky  hills,  when 
it  makes  rapidly  for  the  Hudson.      Its  career 
all  the  way  from  the  lake  is  a  series  of  alter- 
nating pools  and  cascades.      Now  a  long,  deep, 
level  stretch,  where  the  perch  and  the  bass  and 
the  pickerel  lurk,    and  where  the  willow-herb 
and   the   royal   osmunda  fern  line  the  shores; 
then  a  sudden    leap  of    eight,    ten,    or  fifteen 


AMONG   THE   WILD-FLOWERS  17 

feet  down  rocks  to  another  level  stretch,  where 
the  water  again  loiters  and  suns  itself;  and  so 
on  through  its  adventurous  course  till  the  hills 
are  cleared  and  the  river  is  in  sight.      Our  road 
leads    us    along    this    stream,    across    its    rude 
bridges,  through  dark  hemlock  and  pine  woods, 
under  gray,  rocky  walls,  now  past  a  black  pool, 
then  within  sight  or  hearing  of  a  foaming  rapid 
or  fall,   till  we  strike   the   outlet   of   the   long 
level  that  leads  to  the  lake.      In  this  we  launch 
our   boat   and   paddle   slowly  upward   over   its 
dark   surface,    now   pushing    our   way   through 
half- submerged    treetops,    then   ducking    under 
the  trunk  of  an  overturned  tree  which  bridges 
the  stream  and  makes  a  convenient  way  for  the 
squirrels   and   wood-mice,    or   else    forcing    the 
boat  over  it  when  it  is  sunk  a  few  inches  below 
the  surface.      We  are  traversing  what  was  once 
a  continuation  of  the  lake;  the  forest  floor  is 
as   level   as   the   water   and   but   a  few   inches 
above    it,    even  in  summer;  it  sweeps  back  a 
half  mile  or  more,  densely  covered  with  black 
ash,  red  maple,    and   other  deciduous    trees,  to 
the  foot  of  the  rocky  hills  which  shut  us   in. 
What  glimpses  we  get,  as  we  steal  along,  into 
the  heart  of  the  rank,  dense,  silent  woods !     I 
carry  in  my  eye  yet  the  vision  I  had  on  one 
occasion,  of  a  solitary  meadow  lily  hanging  like 
a  fairy  bell  there  at  the  end  of  a  chance  open- 
ing, where  a  ray  of  sunlight  fell  full  upon   it 
and  brought  out  its  brilliant  orange  against  the 
dark  green  background.      It  appeared  to  be  the 
only    bit    of    bright    color    in    all    the    woods. 


18  AMONG   THE   WILD-FLOWERS 

Then  the  song  of  a  single  hermit-thrush  immB' 
diately  after  did  even  more  for  the  ear  than  the 
lily  did  for  the  eye.  Presently  the  swamp- 
sparrow,  one  of  the  rarest  of  the  sparrows,  was 
seen  and  heard;  and  that  nest  there  in  a  small 
bough  a  few  feet  over  the  water  proves  to  be 
hers  —  in  appearance,  a  ground  bird's  nest  in 
a  bough,  with  the  same  four  speckled  eggs. 
As  we  come  in  sight  of  the  lilies,  where  they 
cover  the  water  at  the  outlet  of  the  lake,  a 
brisk  gust  of  wind,  as  if  it  had  been  waiting 
to  surprise  us,  sweeps  down  and  causes  every 
leaf  to  leap  from  the  water  and  show  its  pink 
under  side.  Was  it  a  fluttering  of  hundreds  of 
wings,  or  the  clapping  of  a  multitude  of  hands'? 
But  there  rocked  the  lilies  with  their  golden 
hearts  open  to  the  sun,  and  their  tender  white 
petals  as  fresh  as  crystals  of  snow.  What  a 
queenly  flower  indeed,  the  type  of  unsullied 
purity  and  sweetness !  Its  root,  like  a  black, 
corrugated,  ugly  reptile,  clinging  to  the  slime, 
but  its  flower  in  purity  and  whiteness  like  a 
star.  There  is  something  very  pretty  in  the 
closed  bud  making  its  way  up  through  the 
water  to  meet  the  sun,  and  there  is  something 
touching  in  the  flower  closing  itself  up  again 
after  its  brief  career,  and  slowly  burying  itself 
beneath  the  dark  wave.  One  almost  fancies  a 
sad,  regretful  look  in  it  as  the  stem  draws  it 
downward  to  mature  its  seed  on  the  sunless 
bottom.  The  pond  lily  is  a  flower  of  the 
morning;  it  closes  a  little  after  noon,  but  after 
you  have  plucked  it  and  carried  it  home,  it  still 


AMONG   THE    WILD-FLOWEKS  19 

feels  the  call  of  the  morning  sun,  and  will 
open  to  him  if  you  give  it  a  good  chance.  Coil 
their  stems  up  in  the  grass  on  the  lawn,  where 
the  sun's  rays  can  reach  them,i,  and  sprinkle 
them  copiously.  By  the  time  you  are  ready 
for  your  morning  walk,  there  they  sit  upon  the 
moist  grass,  almost  as  charmingly  as  upon  the 
wave. 

Our  more  choice  wild-flowers,  the  rarer  and 
finer  spirits  among  them,  please  us  by  their  in- 
dividual beauty  and  charm;  others,  more  coarse 
and  common,  delight  us  by  mass  and  profusion; 
we  regard  not  the  one,  but  the  many,  as  did 
Wordsworth  his  golden  daffodils :  — 

"  Ten  thousand,  saw  I  at  a  glance 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance." 

Of  such  is  the  marsh- marigold,  giving  a 
golden  lining  to  many  a  dark,  marshy  place  in 
the  leafless  April  woods,  or  marking  a  little 
watercourse  through  a  greening  meadow  with  a 
broad  line  of  new  gold.  One  glances  up  from 
his  walk,  and  his  eye  falls  upon  something  like 
fixed  and  heaped-up  sunshine  there  beneath  the 
alders,  or  yonder  in  the  freshening  field. 

In  a  measure,  the  same  is  true  of  our  wild 
sunflowers,  lighting  up  many  a  neglected  bushy 
fence  corner  or  weedy  roadside  with  their 
bright,  beaming  faces.  The  evening  primrose 
is  a  coarse,  rankly  growing  plant;  but,  in  late 
summer,  how  many  an  untrimmed  bank  is 
painted  over  by  it  with  the  most  fresh  and 
delicate  canary  yellow! 


20  AMONG   THE    WILD-FLOWERS 

We  have  one  flower  which  grows  in  vast 
multitudes,  yet  which  is  exquisitely  delicate 
and  beautiful  in  and  of  itself:  I  mean  the 
houstonia,  or  .bluets.  In  May,  in  certain  parts 
of  the  country,  I  see  vast  sheets  of  it;  in  old, 
low  meadow  bottoms  that  have  never  known 
the  plough,  it  covers  the  ground  like  a  dull 
bluish  or  purplish  snow  which  has  blown 
unevenly  about.  In  the  mass  it  is  not  espe- 
cially pleasing;  it  has  a  faded,  indefinite  sort 
of  look.  Its  color  is  not  strong  and  positive 
enough  to  be  effective  in  the  mass,  yet  each 
single  flower  is  a  gem  of  itself.  The  color  of 
the  common  violet  is  much  more  firm  and  pro- 
nounced; and  how  many  a  grassy  bank  is  made 
gay  with  it  in  the  mid-May  days !  We  have  a 
great  variety  of  violets,  and  they  are  very 
capricious  as  to  perfume.  The  only  species 
which  are  uniformly  fragrant  are  the  tall 
Canada  violet,  so  common  in  our  Northern 
woods,  —  white,  with  a  tinge  of  purple  to  the 
under  side  of  its  petals,  —  and  the  small  white 
violet  of  the  marshy  places;  yet  one  summer  I 
came  upon  a  host  of  the  spurred  violet  in  a 
sunny  place  in  the  woods  which  filled  the  air 
with  a  delicate  perfume.  A  handful  of  them 
yielded  a  perceptible  fragrance,  but  a  single 
flower  none  that  I  could  detect.  The  Canada 
violet  very  frequently  blooms  in  the  fall,  and 
is  more  fragrant  at  such  times  than  in  its  earlier 
blooming.  I  must  not  forget  to  mention  that 
delicate  and  lovely  flower  of  May,  the  fringed 
polygala.      You  gather  it  when  you  go  for  the 


AMONG  THE   WILD-FLOWERS  21 

fragrant,  showy  orchis,  —  that  is,  if  you  are 
lucky  enough  to  find  it.  It  is  rather  a  shy 
flower,  and  is  not  found  in  every  woods.  One 
day  we  went  up  and  down  through  the  woods 
looking  for  it,  —  woods  of  mingled  oak,  chest- 
nut, pine,  and  hemlock,  —  and  were  about  giv- 
ing it  up  when  suddenly  we  came  upon  a  gay 
company  of  them  beside  an  old  wood-road.  It 
was  as  if  a  flock  of  small  rose- purple  butterflies 
had  alighted  there  on  the  ground  before  us. 
The  whole  plant  has  a  singularly  fresh  and 
tender  aspect.  Its  foliage  is  of  a  slightly  pur- 
ple tinge,  and  of  very  delicate  texture.  Not 
the  least  interesting  feature  about  the  plant  is 
the  concealed  fertile  flower  which  it  bears  on  a 
subterranean  shoot,  keeping,  as  it  were,  one 
flower  for  beauty  and  one  for  use. 


II 


In  our  walks  we  note  the  most  showy  and 
beautiful    flowers,    but    not    always    the    most 
interesting.      Who,  for  instance,  pauses  to  con- 
sider that  early  species  of  everlasting,  commonly 
called     mouse- ear,     that     grows    nearly    every- 
where   by   the   roadside   or   about   poor   fields? 
It  begins  to  be  noticeable  in  May,  its  whitish 
downy  appearance,  its  groups  of  slender  stalks 
crowned  with  a  corymb  of  paper-like  buds,  con- 
trasting it  with  the  fresh  green  of  surrounding 
grass  or  weeds.      It  is  a  member  of  a  very  large 
family,  the  Compositse,  and  does  not  attract  one 


22  AMONG   THE   AVILD-FLOWERS 

by  its  beauty;  but  it  is  interesting,  because  of 
its  many  curious  traits  and  habits.  For  in- 
stance, it  is  dioecious,  that  is,  the  two  sexes  are 
represented  by  separate  plants;  and  what  is 
more  curious,  these  plants  are  usually  found 
separated  from  each  other  in  well  defined 
groups,  like  the  men  and  women  in  an  old- 
fashioned  country  church,  —  always  in  groups ; 
here  a  group  of  females,  there  a  few  yards 
away,  a  group  of  males.  The  females  may  be 
known  by  their  more  slender  and  graceful 
appearance,  and,  as  the  season  advances,  by 
their  outstripping  the  males  in  growth.  In- 
deed, they  become  real  amazons  in  comparison 
with  their  brothers.  The  staminate  or  male 
plants  grow  but  a  few  inches  high;  the  heads 
are  round,  and  have  a  more  dusky  or  freckled 
appearance  than  do  the  pistillate;  and  as  soon 
as  they  have  shed  their  pollen  their  work  is 
done,  they  are  of  no  further  use,  and  by  the 
middle  of  May  or  before,  their  heads  droop, 
their  stalks  wither,  and  their  general  collapse 
sets  in.  Then  the  other  sex,  or  pistillate 
plants,  seem  to  have  taken  a  new  lease  of  life; 
they  Avax  strong,  they  shoot  up  with  the  grow- 
ing grass  and  keep  their  heads  above  it;  they 
are  alert  and  active,  they  bend  in  the  breeze; 
their  long,  tapering  flower-heads  take  on  a  tinge 
of  color,  and  life  seems  full  of  purpose  and 
enjoyment  with  them.  I  have  discovered,  too, 
that  they  are  real  sun  worshipers;  that  they 
turn  their  faces  to  the  east  in  the  morning,  and 
follow  the  sun  in  his  course  across  the  sky  til] 


AMONG  THE   WILD-FLOWERS  23 

they  all  bend  to  the  west  at  his  going  down. 
On  the  other  hand,  their  brothers  have  stood 
stiff  and  stupid  and  unresponsive  to  any  influ- 
ence of  sky  and  air,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  till 
they  drooped  and  died. 

Another  curious  thing  is  that  the  females  seem 
vastly   more    numerous.      I   should   say   almost 
ten  times  as  abundant.     You  have  to  hunt  for 
the  males  ;   the  others  you  see  far  off.     One  sea- 
son I  used   every  day  to  pass  several  groups  or 
circles  of  females  in  the  grass  by  the  roadside. 
I  noted  how  they  grew  and  turned  their  faces 
sunward.      I  observed   how  alert  and  vigorous 
they  were,  and  what  a  purplish  tinge  came  over 
their  mammae-shaped  flower-heads  as  June  ap- 
proached.    I  looked  for  the  males  ;  to  the  east, 
south,  west,  none  could  be  found  for  hundreds  of 
yards.     On  the  north,   about  two  hundred  feet 
away,  I  found  a  small  colony  of  meek  and  lowly 
males.     I  wondered  by  what  agency  fertilization 
would  take  place,  by  insects,  or  by  the  wind  1     I 
suspected  it  would  not  take  place.      No  insects 
seemed  to  visit  the  flowers,  and  the  wind  surely 
could  not  be  relied  upon  to  hit  the  mark  so  far 
off,    and   from   such    an    unlikely   corner,    too. 
But  by  some  means  the  vitalizing  dust  seemed 
to   have   been   conveyed.      Early    in   June   the 
plants  began  to  shed  their  down,  or  seed- bear- 
ing pappus,  still  carrying  their  heads  at  the  top 
of  the  grass,  so  that  the  breezes  could  have  free 
access  to  them  and  sow  the  seeds  far  and  wide. 
As  the  seeds  are  sown  broadcast  by  the  wind, 


24  AMONG  THE   WILD-FLOWERS 

I  was  at  first  puzzled  to  know  how  the  two 
sexes  were  kept  separate,  and  always  in  little 
communities,  till  I  perceived  what  I  might 
have  read  in  the  botany,  that  the  plant  is 
perennial  and  spreads  by  offsets  and  runners 
like  the  strawberry.  This  would  of  course 
keep  the  two  kinds  in  groups  by  themselves. 

Another   plant    which  has    interesting   ways 
and  is  beautiful  besides  is  the  adder' s-tongue, 
or  yellow  erythro7iium,  the  earliest  of  the  lilies, 
and  one  of  the  most  pleasing.      The  April  sun- 
shine is  fairly  reflected  in  its  revolute  flowers. 
The  lilies  have  bulbs  that  sit  on  or  near  the 
top  of  the  ground.      The  onion  is  a  fair  type  of 
the  lily  in  this  respect.     But  here  is  a  lily  with 
the   bulb   deep   in   the   ground.      How   it   gets 
there  is  well  worth  investigating.      The  botany 
says  the  bulb  is  deep  in  the  ground  but  ofi'ers 
no  explanation.     Now  it  is  only  the  bulbs  of  the 
older  or  flowering  plants  that  are  deep  in  the 
ground.      The  bulbs   of   the   young   plants  are 
near  the  top  of  the  ground.      The  young  plants 
have  but  one  leaf,  the  older  or  flowering  ones 
have  two.      If  you  happen  to  be  in  the  woods 
at  the  right  time  in  early  April  you  may  see 
these  leaves  compactly  rolled  together,  piercing 
the  matted  coating  of  sear  leaves  that  covers 
the  ground  like  some  sharp-pointed  instrument. 
They  do  not  burst  their  covering  or  lift  it  up, 
but  pierce  through  it  like  an  awl. 

But  how  does  the  old  bulb  get  so  deep  into 
the  ground  ?  In  digging  some  of  them  up  one 
spring   in    an    old   meadow   bottom,    I   had    to 


AMONG   THE    WILD-FLOWERS  25 

cleave  the  tough  fihrous  sod  to  a  depth  of  eight 
inches.  The  smaller  ones  were  barely  two 
inches  below  the  surface.  Of  course  they  all 
started  from  the  seed  at  the  surface  of  the  soil. 
The  young  botanist,  or  nature  lover,  Avill  find 
here  a  field  for  original  research.  If,  in  late 
May  or  early  elune,  after  the  leaves  of  the 
plant  have  disappeared,  he  finds  the  ground 
where  they  stood  showing  curious,  looping, 
twisting  growths  or  roots,  of  a  greenish  white 
color,  let  him  examine  them.  They  are  as 
smooth  and  as  large  as  an  angle- worm  and  very 
brittle.  Both  ends  will  be  found  in  the 
ground,  one  attached  to  the  old  bulb,  the  other 
boring  or  drilling  downward  and  enlarged  till 
it  suggests  the  new  bulb.  I  do  not  know  that 
this  mother  root  in  all  cases  comes  to  the  sur- 
face. Why  it  should  come  at  all  is  a  mystery, 
unless  it  be  in  some  way  to  get  more  power  for 
the  downward  thrust.  My  own  observations 
upon  the  subject  are  not  complete,  but  I  think 
in  the  foregoing  I  have  given  the  clue  as  to 
how  the  bulb  each  year  sinks  deeper  and  deeper 
into  the  ground. 

It  is  a  pity  that  this  graceful  and  abundant 
flower  has  no  good  and  appropriate  common 
name.  It  is  the  earliest  of  the  true  lilies,  and 
it  has  all  the  grace  and  charm  that  belong  to 
this  order  of  flowers.  Erythronium,  its  bo- 
tanical name,  is  not  good,  as  it  is  derived  from 
a  Greek  word  that  means  red,  while  one  species 
of  our  flower  is  yellow  and  the  other  is  white. 
How  it  came  to  be  called  adder 's-tongue  I  do 


w 


26  AMONG    THE    WILD-FLOWERS 

not  know;  probably  from  the  spotted  charac- 
ter of  the  leaf,  which  might  suggest  a  snake, 
though  it  in  no  wise  resembles  a  snake's 
tongue.  A  fawn  is  spotted,  too,  and  "fawn- 
lily  "  would  be  better  than  adder' s-tongue. 
Still  better  is  the  name  "trout-lily,"  which  has 
recently  been  proposed  for  this  plant.  It  blooms 
along  the  trout  streams,  and  its  leaf  is  as  mot- 
q^J  tied  as  a  trout's  back.  The  name  "dog's- 
tooth"  may  have  been  suggested  by  the  shape 
and  color  of  the  bud,  but  how  the  "violet" 
came  to  be  added  is  a  puzzle,  as  it  has  not  one 
feature  of  the  violet.  It  is  only  another  illus- 
tration of  the  haphazard  way  in  which  our 
wild-flowers,  as  well  as  our  birds,  have  been 
named. 

In  my  spring  rambles  I  have  sometimes  come 
upon  a  solitary  specimen  of  this  yellow  lily 
growing  beside  a  mossy  stone  where  the  sun- 
shine fell  full  upon  it,  and  have  thought  it  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  of  our  Avild-flowers.  Its 
two  leaves  stand  up  like  a  fawn's  ears,  and  this 
feature,  with  its  re-curved  petals,  gives  it  an 
alert,  Avide- awake  look.  The  white  species  I 
have  never  seen.  I  am  told  they  are  very 
abundant  on  the  mountains  in  California. 

Another  of  our  common  wild-flowers,  wh'ch 
I  always  look  at  with  an  interrogation  point  in 
my  mind,  is  the  wild  ginger.  Why  should  this 
plant  always  hide  its  flower?  Its  two  fuzzy, 
heart-shaped  green  leaves  stand  up  very  con- 
spicuously amid  the  rocks  or  mossy  stones,  but 
its   one   curious,    brown,    bell- shaped   flower   is 


AMONG    THE    WILD-FLOWERS  27 

always  hidden  beneath  the  moss  or  dry  leaves, 
as  if  too  modest  to  face  the  light  of  the  open 
woods.  As  a  rule,  the  one  thing  which  a  plant 
is  anxious  to  show  and  to  make  much  of,  and 
to  flaunt  before  all  the  world,  is  its  flower. 
But  the  wild  ginger  reverses  the  rule  and 
blooms  in  secret.  Instead  of  turning  upward 
toward  the  light  and  air,  it  turns  downward 
toward  the  darkness  and  the  silence.  It  has 
no  corolla,  but  what  the  botanists  call  a  lurid 
or  brown-purple  calyx,  which  is  conspicuous 
like  a  corolla.  Its  root  leaves  in  the  mouth  a 
taste  precisely  like  that  of  ginger. 

This  plant  and  the  closed  gentian  are  appar- 
ent exceptions,  in  their  manner  of  blooming,  to 
the  general  habit  of  the  rest  of  our  flowers. 
The  closed  gentian  does  not  hide  its  flower,  but 
the  corolla  never  opens;  it  always  remains  a 
closed  bud.  It  probably  never  experiences  the 
benefits  of  insect  visits,  which  Darwin  showed 
us  were  of  such  importance  in  the  vegetable 
world.  I  once  plucked  one  of  the  flowers  into 
which  a  bumble-bee  had  forced  his  wav,  but  he 
had  never  come  out;  the  flower  was  his  tomb. 

There  is  yet  another  curious  exception  which 
I  will  mention,  namely,  the  witch-hazel.  All 
our  trees  and  plants  bloom  in  the  spring,  except 
this  one  species;  this  blooms  in  the  fall.  Just 
as  its  leaves  are  fading  and  falling,  its  flowers 
appear,  giving  out  an  odor  along  the  bushy 
lanes  and  margins  of  the  woods  that  is  to  the 
nose  like  cool  water  to  the  hand.  Why  it 
should   bloom   in    the    fall    instead    of    in    the 


28  AMONG   THE    WILD-FLOWERS 

spring  is  a  mystery.  And  it  is  probably  be- 
cause of  this  very  curious  trait  that  its  branches 
are  used  as  divining-rods  by  certain  credulous 
persons,  to  point  out  where  springs  of  water  and 
jjrecious  metals  are  hidden. 

Most  young  people  find  botany  a  dull  study. 
So  it  is,  as  taught  from  the  text- books  in  the 
schools ;  but  study  it  yourself  in  the  fields  and 
woods,  and  you  will  find  it  a  source  of  peren- 
nial delight.      Find  your  flower  and  then  name 
it  by  the  aid  of  the  botany.      There  is  so  much 
in  a  name.      To  find  out  what  a  thing  is   called 
is  a  great  help.      It  is  the  beginning  of  know- 
ledge; it   is   the   first   step.      When   we   see    a 
new  person  who  interests  us,  we  wish  to  know 
his  or  her  name.      A  bird,  a  flower,  a  place,  — 
the  first  thing  we  wish  to  know  about  it  is   its 
name.      Its    name    helps    us    to   classify   it;   it 
gives  us  a  handle  to  grasp  it  by,  it  sheds  a  ray 
of   light   where   all   before   was   darkness.      As 
soon  as  we  know  the  name  of  a  thing,  we  seem 
to  have  established  some  sort  of  relation  with  it. 
The  other  day,  while  the  train  was  delayed 
by  an  accident,  I  wandered  a  few  yards   away 
from   it   along   the    river  margin   seeking   wild- 
flowers.      Should  I  find  any  whose  name  I  did 
not    know?     While    thus     loitering,    a     young 
English  girl  also  left  the  train  and  came  in  my 
direction,  plucking  the  flowers  right  and  left  as 
she  came.      But  they  were  all  unknown  to  her; 
she  did 'not  know  the  names  of  one  of  them, 
and    she    wished    to    send   them   home    to   hei 
father,  too.      With  what  satisfaction  she  heard 


AMONG   THE    WILD-FLOWEKS  29 

the  names;  the  words  seemed  to  be  full  of 
meaning  to  her,  though  she  had  never  heard 
them  before  in  her  life.  It  was  what  she 
wanted:  it  was  an  introduction  to  the  flowers, 
and  her  interest  in  them  increased  at  once. 

"That  orange-colored  flower  which  you  just 
plucked  from  the  edge  of  the  water,  that  is  our 
jewel-weed,"  I  said. 

"It  looks  like  a  jewel,"  she  replied. 

"You  have  nothing  like  it  in  England,  or 
did  not  have  till  lately ;  but  I  hear  it  is  now 
appearing  along  certain  English  streams,  having 
been  brought  from  this  country. " 

"And  what  is  this?"  she  inquired,  holding 
up  a  blue  flower  with  a  very  bristly  leaf  and 

stalk. 

"That  is  viper' s-bugloss  or  blucAveed,  a  plant 
from  your  side  of  the  water,  one  that  is  making 
itself  thoroughly  at  home  along  the  Hudson 
and  in  the  valleys  of  some  of  its  tributaries 
among  the  Catskills.  It  is  a  rough,  hardy 
weed,  but  its  flower,  with  its  long,  conspicuous 
purple  stamens  and  blue  corolla,  as  you  see,  is 

very  pretty." 

"Here  is  another  emigrant  from  across  the 
Atlantic,"  I  said,  holding  up  a  cluster  of  small 
white  flowers,  each  mounted  upon  a  little 
inflated  brown  bag  or  balloon,  —  the  bladder- 
campion.  "It  also  runs  riot  in  some  of  our 
fields  as  I  am  sure  you  will  not  see  it  at  home. " 
She  went  on  filling  her  hands  with  flowers,  and 
I  gave  her  the  names  of  each,  —  sweet  clover 
or  melilotus,  probably  a  native  plant,   vervain 


30  AMONG   THE    WILD-FLOWERS 

(foreign),  purple  loosestrife  (foreign),  toad-flax 
(foreign),  chelone  or  turtle-head,  a  native,  and 
the  purple  mimulus  or  monkey- flower,  also  a 
native.  It  was  a  likely  place  for  the  cardinal- 
flower,  but  I  could  not  find  any.  I  wanted 
this  hearty  English  girl  to  see  one  of  our  native 
wild- flowers  so  intense  in  color  that  it  would 
fairly  make  her  eyes  water  to  gaze  upon  it. 

Just  4hen  the  whistle  of  the  engine  sum- 
moned us  all  aboard,  and  in  a  moment  we  were 
ofl". 

When    one    is    stranded     anywhere     in     the 
country  in  the  season  of  flowers  or  birds,  if  he 
feels  any  interest  in  these  things  he  always  has 
something   ready    at   hand   to   fall    back   upon. 
And  if  he  feels  no  interest  in  them  he  will  do 
well  to  cultivate  an  interest.      The  tedium  of 
an  eiglity-mile  drive  which  I  lately   took   (in 
September),    cutting    through    parts     of    three 
counties,    was   greatly   relieved   by   noting    the 
various    flowers    by    the     roadside.      First    my 
attention  was  attracted  by  wild  thyme  making 
purple  patches  here  and  there  in  the  meadows 
and    pastures.      I   got   out   of    the   wagon    and 
gathered  some  of  it;  I  found  honey-bees  work- 
ing   upon   it,    and   remembered   that   it   was   a 
famous   plant   for   honey    in   parts    of    the    old 
world.      It   had    probably   escaped    from    some 
garden;  I  had  never  seen  it  growing  wild  in 
this  way  before.      Along  the  Schoharie  Kill,  I 
saw  acres   of  blue  weed  or  viper 's-bugloss,   the 
hairy    stems    of    the    plants,    when    looked    at 
toward  the  sun,  having  a  frosted  appearance. 


AMONG    THE    WILD-FLOWERS  31 

What  is  this  tall  plant  by  the  roadside 
thickly  hung  with  pendent  clusters  of  long  pur- 
plish buds  or  tassels?  The  stalk  is  four  feet 
high,  the  lower  leaves  are  large  and  lobed,  and 
the  whole  effect  of  the  plant  is  striking.  The 
clusters  of  purple  pendents  have  a  very  deco- 
rative effect.  This  is  a  species  of  nabalus,  of 
the  great  composite  family,  and  is  sometimes 
called  lion's-foot.  The  flower  is  cream-colored, 
but  quite  inconspicuous.  The  noticeable  thing 
about  it  is  the  drooping  or  pendulous  clusters 
of  what  appear  to  be  buds,  but  which  are  the 
involucres,  bundles  of  purple  scales,  like  little 
staves,  out  of  which  the  flower  emerges. 

In  another  place  I  caught  sight  of  something 
intensely  blue  in  a  wet,  weedy  place,  and  on 
getting  some  of  it  found  it  to  be  the  closed 
gentian,  a  flower  to  which  I  have  already  re- 
ferred as  never  opening  but  always  remaining 
a  bud.  Four  or  five  of  these  blue  buds,  each 
like  the  end  of  your  little  finger  and  as  long  as 
the  first  joint,  crown  the  top  of  the  stalk,  set 
in  a  rosette  of  green  leaves.  It  is  one  of  our 
rarer  flowers,  and  a  very  interesting  one,  well 
worth  getting  out  of  the  wagon  to  gather.  As 
I  drove  through  a  swampy  part  of  Ulster 
County,  my  attention  was  attracted  by  a  climb- 
ing plant  overrunning  the  low  bushes  by  the 
sluggish  streams,  and  covering  them  thickly 
with  clusters  of  dull  white  flowers.  I  did  not 
remember  evej  to  have  seen  it  before,  and  on 
taking  it  home  and  examining  it  found  it  to  be 
climbing    boneset.      The   flowers   are   so    much 


S2  AMONG   THE   WILD-FLOWERS 

like   those   of   boneset  that  you  would  suspect 
their  relationship  at  once. 

Without  the  name  any  flower  is  still  more  or 
less  a  stranger  to  you.  The  name  betrays  its 
family,  its  relationship  to  other  flowers,  and 
gives  the  mind  something  tangible  to  grasp. 
It  is  very  diflicult  for  persons  who  have  had  no 
special  training  to  learn  the  names  of  the  flow- 
ers from  the  botany.  The  botany  is  a  sealed 
book  to  them.  The  descriptions  of  the  flowers 
are  in  a  language  which  they  do  not  understand 
at  all.  And  the  key  is  no  help  to  them.  It 
is  as  much  a  puzzle  as  the  botany  itself.  They 
need  a  key  to  unlock  the  key. 

One  of  these  days  some  one  will  give  us  a 
handbook  of  our  wild  -  flowers,  by  the  aid  of 
which  we  shall  all  l)e  able  to  name  those  we 
gather  in  our  walks  without  the  trouble  of 
analyzing  them.  In  this  book  we  shall  have  a 
list  of  all  our  flowers  arranged  according  to 
color,  as  white  flowers,  blue  flowers,  yellow 
flowers,  pink  flowers,  etc.,  with  place  of  growth 
and  time  of  blooming.  Also  lists  or  sub-lists 
of  fragrant  flowers,  climbing  flowers,  marsh 
flowers,  meadow  flowers,  wood  flowers,  etc.,  so 
that,  with  flower  in  hand,  by  running  over 
these  lists  we  shall  be  pretty  sure  to  find  its 
name.  Having  got  its  name  we  can  turn  to 
Gray  or  Wood  and  find  a  more  teclinical  de- 
scription of  it  if  we  choose. 


THE  HEAET  OF  THE  SOUTHERN 
CATSKILLS 

On  looking  at  the  Southern  and  more  distant 
Catskills  from  the  Hudson  River  on  the  east, 
or  on  looking  at  them  from  the  west,  from  some 
point  of  vantage  in  Delaware  County,  you  see, 
amid  the  group  of  mountains,  one  that  looks 
like  the  back  and  shoulders  of  a  gigantic  horse. 
The  horse  has  got  his  head  down  grazing;  the 
shoulders  are  high,  and  the  descent  from  them 
down  his  neck  very  steep ;  if  he  were  to  lift  up 
his  head,  one  sees  that  it  would  be  carried  far 
above  all  other  peaks,  and  that  the  noble  beast 
might  gaze  straight  to  his  peers  in  the  Adiron- 
dacks  or  the  Wliite  Mountains.  But  the  head 
and  neck  never  come  up ;  some  spell  or  enchant- 
ment keeps  it  down  there  amid  the  mighty 
herd,  and  the  high  round  shoulders  and  the 
smooth  strong  back  of  the  steed  are  alone  visi- 
ble. The  peak  to  which  I  refer  is  Slide  Moun- 
tain, the  highest  of  the  Catskills  by  some  two 
hundred  feet,  and  probably  the  most  inaccessi- 
ble; certainly  the  hardest  to  get  a  view  of,  it 
is  hedged  about  so  completely  by  other  peaks. 
The  greatest  mountain  of  them  all,  and  appar- 
ently the  least  willing  to  be  seen;  only  at  a 
distance  of  thirty  or  forty  miles  is  it  seen  to 


34   HEART  OF  THE  SOUTHERN  CATSKILLS 

stand  up  above  all  other  peaks.  It  takes  its 
name  from  a  landslide  which  occurred  many 
years  ago,  down  its  steep  northern  side,  or 
down  the  neck  of  the  grazing  steed.  The  mane 
of  spruce  and  balsam  fir  was  stripped  away  for 
many  hundred  feet,  leaving  a  long  gray  streak 
visible  from  afar. 

Slide  Mountain  is  the  centre  and  the  chief 
of  the  Southern  Catskills.      Streams  flow  from 
its  base  and  from  the  base  of  its  subordinates 
to  all  points  of  the  compass:  the  Rondout  and 
the  Neversink  to  the  south;  the  Beaverkill  to 
the  west;  the  Esopus  to  the  north,  and  several 
lesser  streams  to  the  east.      With  its  summit  as 
the  centre,  a  radius  of  ten  miles  would  include 
within  the  circle  described  but  very  little  culti- 
vated land ;  only  a  few  poor,  wild  farms  in  some 
of  the  numerous  valleys.      The  soil  is  poor,  a 
mixture  of  gravel  and  clay,  and  is  subject  to 
slides.      It   lies    in   the   valleys   in   ridges   and 
small  hillocks  as  if  dumped  there  from  a  huge 
cart.      The  tops  of  the  Southern  Catskills  are 
all    capped    with    a    kind    of    conglomerate    or 
"pudden  stone"  —  a  rock  of  cemented  quartz 
pebbles    which    underlies    the     coal     measures. 
This  rock  disintegrates  under  the  action  of  the 
elements,  and  the  sand  and  gravel  which  result 
are  carried  into  the  valleys  and  make  up  the 
most  of  the  soil.      From  the  Northern  Catskills, 
so  far  as  I  know  them,  this  rock  has  been  swept 
clean.      Low  down  in  the  valleys  the  old  red 
sandstone  crops  out,  and  as  you  go  west  into 
Delaware  County,  in  many  places  it  alone  re- 


HEART   OF   THE    SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS      35 

mains  and  makes  up  most  of  the  soil,  all  the 
Buperincumbent  rock  having  been  carried  away. 

Slide  Mountain  had  been  a  summons  and  a 
challenge  to  me  for  many  years.  I  had  fished 
every  stream  that  it  nourished,  and  had  camped 
in  the  wilderness  on  all  sides  of  it,  and  when- 
ever I  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  its  summit  I 
had  promised  myself  to  set  foot  there  before 
another  season  had  passed.  But  the  seasons 
came  and  went,  and  my  feet  got  no  nimbler 
and  Slide  Mountain  no  lower,  until  finally,  one 
July,  seconded  by  an  energetic  friend,  we 
thought  to  bring  Slide  to  terms  by  approaching 
him  through  the  mountains  on  the  east.  With 
a  farmer's  son  for  guide  we  struck  in  by  way  of 
Weaver  Hollow,  and,  after  a  long  and  desper- 
ate climb,  contented  ourselves  with  the  Whit- 
tenburg,  instead  of  Slide.  The  view  from  the 
Whittenburg  is  in  many  respects  more  striking, 
as  you  are  perched  immediately  above  a  broader 
and  more  distant  sweep  of  country,  and  are 
only  about  two  hundred  feet  lower.  You  are 
here  on  the  eastern  brink  of  the  Southern  Cats- 
kills,  and  the  earth  falls  away  at  your  feet  and 
curves  down  through  an  immense  stretch  of 
forest  till  it  joins  the  plain  of  Shokan,  and 
thence  sweeps  away  to  the  Hudson  and  beyond. 
Slide  is  southwest  of  you,  six  or  seven  miles 
distant,  but  is  visible  only  when  you  climb 
into  a  treetop.  I  climbed  and  saluted  him  and 
promised  to  call  next  time. 

We   passed   the   night  on  the  Whittenburg, 
sleeping   on   the    moss,    between    two    decayed 


36      HEART    OF   THE    SOUTHERN    CATSKILLS 

logs,  with  balsam  boughs  thrust  into  the  ground 
and  meeting  and  forming  a  canopy  over  us. 
In  coming  off  the  mountain  in  the  morning  we 
ran  upon  a  huge  porcupine,  and  I  learned  for 
the  first  time  that  the  tail  of  a  porcupine  goes 
with  a  spring  like  a  trap.  It  seems  to  be  a 
set-lock,  and  you  no  sooner  touch  with  the 
weight  of  a  hair  one  of  the  quills,  than  the  tail 
leaps  up  in  a  most  surprising  manner,  and  the 
laugh  is  not  on  your  side.  The  beast  cantered 
rJong  the  path  in  my  front,  and  I  threw  myself 
upon  him,  shielded  by  my  roll  of  blankets. 
He  submitted  quietly  to  the  indignity,  and  lay 
very  still  under  my  blankets,  with  his  broad 
tail  pressed  close  to  the  ground.  This  I  pro- 
ceeded to  investigate,  but  had  not  fairly  made  a 
beginning  when  it  went  off  like  a  trap,  and  my 
hand  and  wrist  were  full  of  quills.  This 
caused  me  to  let  up  on  the  creature,  when  it 
lumbered  away  till  it  tumbled  down  a  preci- 
pice. The  quills  were  quickly  removed  from 
my  hand,  when  we  gave  chase.  When  we 
came  up  to  him  he  had  wedged  himself  in 
between  the  rocks  so  that  he  presented  only  a 
back  bristling  with  quills,  with  the  tail  lying 
in  ambush  below.  He  had  chosen  his  position 
well,  and  seemed  to  defy  us.  After  amusing 
ourselves  by  repeatedly  springing  his  tail  and 
receiving  the  quills  in  a  rotten  stick,  we  made 
a  slip-noose  out  of  a  spruce  root,  and  after 
much  manoeuvring  got  it  over  his  head  and  led 
him  forth.  In  what  a  peevish,  injured  tone 
the  creature  did  complain  of  our  unfair  tactics. 


HEART   OF   THE   SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS      37 

He  protested  and  protested,  and  Mdiimpered 
and  scolded  like  some  infirm  old  man  tormented 
by  boys.  His  game  after  we  led  him  forth 
was  to  keep  himself  as  much  as  possible  in  the 
shape  of  a  ball,  but  with  two  sticks  and  the 
cord  we  finally  threw  him  over  on  his  back  and 
exposed  his  quilless  and  vulnerable  under  side, 
when  he  fairly  surrendered  and  seemed  to  say, 
"Now  you  may  do  with  me  as  you  like."  His 
great  chisel-like  teeth,  which  are  quite  as  for- 
midable as  those  of  the  woodchuck,  he  does  not 
appear  to  use  at  all  in  his  defense,  but  relies 
entirely  upon  his  quills,  and  when  those  fail 
him  he  is  done  for. 

After  amusing  ourselves  with  him  a  while 
longer,  we  released  him  and  went  on  our  way. 
The  trail  to  which  we  had  committed  ourselves 
led  us  down  into  Woodland  Valley,  a  retreat 
which  so  took  my  eye  by  its  fine  trout  brook, 
its  sujDerb  mountain  scenery,  and  its  sweet 
seclusion,  that  I  marked  it  for  my  own  and 
promised  myself  a  return  to  it  at  no  distant 
day.  This  promise  I  kept  and  pitched  my  tent 
there  twice  during  that  season.  Both  occasions 
were  a  sort  of  laying  siege  to  Slide,  but  we 
only  skirmished  with  him  at  a  distance;  the 
actual  assault  was  not  undertaken.  But  the 
following  year,  reinforced  by  two  other  brave 
climbers,  we  determined  upon  the  assault,  and 
upon  making  it  from  this  the  most  difiicult 
side.  The  regular  way  is  by  Big  Ingin  Valley, 
where  the  climb  is  comparatively  easy,  and 
where  it  is  often  made  by  women.      But  from 


38      HEART   OF   THE    SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS 

Woodland  Valley  only  men  may  essay  the 
ascent.  Larkins  is  the  upper  inhabitant,  and 
from  our  camping-ground  near  his  clearing  we 
set  out  early  one  June  morning. 

One  would  think  nothing  could  be  easier  to 
find  than  a  big  mountain,  especially  when  one 
is  encamped  upon  a  stream  which  he  knows 
springs  out  of  its  very  loins.  But  for  some 
reason  or  other  we  had  got  an  idea  that  Slide 
Mountain  was  a  very  slippery  customer  and 
must  be  approached  cautiously.  We  had  tried 
from  several  points  in  the  valley  to  get  a  view 
of  it,  but  were  not  quite  sure  we  had  seen  its 
very  head.  When  on  the  Whittenburg,  a 
neighboring  peak,  the  year  before,  I  had  caught 
a  brief  glimpse  of  it  only  by  climbing  a  dead 
tree  and  craning  up  for  a  moment  from  its  top- 
most branch.  It  would  seem  as  if  the  moun- 
tain had  taken  every  precaution  to  shut  itself 
off  from  a  near  view.  It  was  a  shy  mountain, 
and  we  were  about  to  stalk  it  through  six  or 
seven  miles  of  primitive  woods,  and  we  seemed 
to  have  some  unreasonable  fear  that  it  might 
elude  us.  We  had  been  told  of  parties  who 
had  essayed  the  ascent  from  this  side,  and  had 
returned  baffled  and  bewildered.  In  a  tangle 
of  primitive  woods,  the  very  bigness  of  the 
mountain  baffles  one.  It  is  all  mountain; 
whichever  way  you  turn  —  and  one  turns  some- 
times in  such  cases  before  he  knows  it  —  the 
foot  finds  a  steep  and  rugged  ascent. 

The  eye  is  of  little  service;  one  must  be 
sure  of  his  bearings  and  push  boldly  on  and  up. 


HEART   OF   THE   SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS       39 

One  is   not  unlike  a  flea  upon  a  great  shaggy 
beast,    looking  for  the  animal's  head,    or  even 
like  a  much  smaller  and  much  less  nimble  crea- 
ture—  he  may  waste  his  time  and  steps,   and 
think  he  has  reached  the  head  when  he  is  only 
upon  the  rump.      Hence  I  questioned  our  host, 
who  had  several  times  made  the  ascent,  closely. 
Larkins  laid  his  old  felt  hat  upon   the   table, 
and,  placing  one  hand  upon  one  side  and  the 
other  upon  the  other,  said:   " There  Slide  lies," 
between  the  two  forks  of  the  stream,   just  as 
my   hat   lies   between   my   two   hands.      David 
will   go  with  you  to  the  forks,    and  then  you 
will   push  right  on  up."     But  Larkins  was  not 
right,  though  he  had  traversed  all  those  moun- 
tains   many   times    over.      The    peak   we   were 
about    to   set  out  for  did  not  lie  between  the 
forks,  but  exactly  at  the  head  of  one  of  them ; 
the   beginnings  of  the  stream  are   in  the  very 
path  of  the  slide,  as  we  afterward  found.      We 
broke  camp  early  in  the  morning,  and  with  our 
blankets  strapped  to  our  backs  and  rations  in 
our    pockets    for    two    days,    set   out   along   an 
ancient  and,  in  places,  an  obliterated  bark  road 
that  followed,    and    crossed,   and    recrossed  the 
stream.      The   morning  was   bright  and  warm, 
but   the   wind  was  fitful   and  petulant,    and   I 
predicted    rain.      What    a    forest    solitude    our 
obstructed   and   dilapidated    wood   road   led  us 
through:   five  miles  of  primitive  woods  before 
we  came  to  the  forks,    three  miles  before  we 
came  to  the  "burnt  shanty,"  a  name  merely  — 
no  shanty  there  now  for  twenty -five  years  past. 


40      HEART    OF   THE    SOUTHERN    CATSKILLS 

The  ravages  of  the  bark  peelers  were  still  visi- 
ble, now  in  a  space  thickly  strewn  with  the  soft 
and  decayed  trunks  of  hemlock-trees,  and  over- 
grown with  wild  cherry,  then  in  huge  mossy 
logs  scattered  through  the  beech  and  maple 
woods ;  some  of  these  logs  were  so  soft  and  mossy 
that  one  could  sit  or  recline  upon  them  as  upon 

a  sofa. 

But  the  prettiest  thing  was  the  stream  solilo- 
quizing in  such  musical  tones  there  amid  the 
moss-covered  rocks  and  bowlders.  How  clean 
it  looked,  what  purity ;  civilization  corrupts  the 
streams  as  it  corrupts  the  Indian;  only  in  such 
remote  woods  can  you  now  see  a  brook  in  all 
its  original  freshness  and  beauty.  Only  the  sea 
and  the  mountain  forest  brook  are  pure;  all 
between  is  contaminated  more  or  less  by  the 
work  of  man.  An  ideal  trout  brook  was  this, 
now  hurrying,  now  loitering,  now  deepening 
around  a  great  bowlder,  now  gliding  evenly 
over  a  pavement  of  green-gray  stone  and  peb- 
bles; no  sediment  or  stain  of  any  kind,  but 
white  and  sparkling  as  snow  water,  and  nearly 
as  cool.  Indeed,  the  water  of  all  this  Catskill 
region  is  the  best  in  the  world.  For  the  first 
few  days  one  feels  as  if  he  could  almost  live  on 
the  water  alone ;  he  cannot  drink  enough  of  it. 
In  this  particular  it  is  indeed  the  good  Bible 
land,  "  a  land  of  brooks  of  water,  of  fountains 
and  depths  that  spring  out  of  valleys  and 
hills. " 

Near   the   forks  we   caught,    or   thought   we 
caught,  through  an  opening,  a  glimpse  of  Slide. 


HEART   OF   THE    SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS      41 

Was  it  Slide,  was  it  the  head,  or  the  rump,  or 
the  shoulder  of  the  shaggy  monster  we  were  m 
quest  of  ?      At  the  forks  there  was  a  bewilder- 
ing maze   of  underbrush   and   great   trees,   and 
the  way  did  not  seem  at  all  certain,  nor  was 
David,  who  was  then  at  the  end  of  his  reckon- 
ing, able  to  reassure  us.      But  in  assaulting  a 
mountain,    as  in  assaulting  a  fort,    boldness   is 
the  watchword.    We  pressed  forward,  following 
a  line  of  blazed  trees  for  nearly  a  mile,  then  turn- 
ing to  the  left  began  the  ascent  of  the  moun- 
tafn.      It  was  steep,  hard  climbing.      We  saw 
numerous  marks  of  both  bears  and  deer;  but  no 
birds,   save   at  long  intervals  the  winter  wren 
flitting  here  and  there  and  darting  under  logs 
and   rubbish    like    a    mouse.      Occasionally   its 
gushing  lyrical  song  would  break  the  silence. 
After   we   had   climbed   an   hour    or    two,    the 
clouds  began  to  gather,  and  presently  the  ram 
began  to  come  down.      This  was  discouraging; 
but   we   put   our   backs   up    against    trees    and 
rocks,  and  waited  for  the  shower  to  pass. 

"They  were  wet  with  the  showers  of  the 
mountain  and  embraced  the  rocks  for  want  of 
shelter,"  as  they  did  in  Job's  time.  But  the 
shower  was  light  and  brief,  and  we  were  soon 
under  way  again.  Three  hours  from  the  forks 
broucrht  us  out  on  the  broad  level  back  of  the 
mountain  upon  which  Slide,  considered  as  an 
isolated  peak,  is  reared.  After  a  time  we  en- 
tered a  dense  growth  of  spruce  which  covered 
a  slight  depression  in  the  table  of  the  moun- 
tain.     The  moss  was  deep,  the  ground  spongy. 


42      HEART   OF   THE    SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS 

the  light  dim,  the  air  hushed.  The  transition 
from  the  open,  leafy  woods  to  this  dim,  silent, 
weird  grove  was  very  marked.  It  was  like  the 
passage  from  the  street  into  the  temple.  Here 
we  paused  awhile  and  ate  our  lunch,  and 
refreshed  ourselves  with  Avater  gathered  from  a 
little  well  sunk  in  the  moss. 

The  quiet  and  repose  of  this  spruce  grove 
proved  to  be  the  calm  that  goes  before  the 
storm.  As  we  passed  out  of  it  we  came  plump 
upon  the  almost  perpendicular  battlements  of 
Slide.  The  mountain  rose  like  a  huge,  rock- 
bound  fortress  from  this  plain-like  expanse.  It 
was  ledge  upon  ledge,  precipice  upon  precipice, 
up  which  and  over  which  we  made  our  way 
slowly  and  with  great  labor,  now  pulling  our- 
selves up  by  our  hands,  then  cautiously  finding 
niches  for  our  feet  and  zigzagging  right  and  left 
from  shelf  to  shelf.  This  northern  side  of  the 
mountain  was  thickly  covered  with  moss  and 
lichens,  like  the  north  side  of  a  tree.  This 
made  it  soft  to  the  foot  and  broke  many  a  slip 
and  fall.  Everywhere  a  stunted  growth  of  yel- 
low birch,  mountain -ash,  and  spruce  and  fir 
opposed  our  progress.  The  ascent  at  such  an 
angle  with  a  roll  of  blankets  on  your  back  is 
not  unlike  climbing  a  tree;  every  limb  resists 
your  progress  and  pushes  you  back,  so  that 
when  we  at  last  reached  the  summit,  after 
twelve  or  fifteen  hundred  feet  of  this  sort  of 
work,  the  fight  was  about  all  out  of  the  best  of 
us.  It  was  then  nearly  two  o'clock,  so  that  we 
had  been  about  seven  hours  in  coming  seven 
miles. 


HEART   OF   THE    SOUTHERN    CATSKILLS      43 

Here  on  the  top  of  the  mountain  we  over- 
took spring,  which  had  been  gone  from  the  val- 
ley nearly  a  month.      Red  clover  was  opening 
in  the  valley  below  and  wild  strawberries  just 
ripening;  on  the  summit  the  yellow  birch  was 
just  hanging  out  its  catkins,  and  the  claytonia, 
or  spring  beauty,  was  in  bloom.      The  leaf-buds 
of  the  trees  were  just  bursting,  making  a  faint 
mist  of  green,  which,  as  the  eye  swept  down- 
ward,   gradually   deepened    until    it    became    a 
dense,   massive  cloud  in  the  valleys.      At  the 
foot  of  the  mountain  the  clintonia,  or  northern 
careen  lily,  and  the  low  shad-bush  were  showing 
their  berries,  but  long  before  the  top  was  reached 
th^y  were  found  in  bloom.      I  had  never  before 
stood    amid    blooming    claytonia,    a   flower     of 
April,  and  looked  down  upon  a  field  that  held 
ripening  strawberries.     Every  thousand  feet  ele- 
vation seemed  to  make  about  ten  days'  differ- 
ence in  the  vegetation,  so  that  the  season  Avas 
a  month  or  more  later  on  the  top  of  the  moun- 
tain  than   at   its   base.      A  very   pretty  flower 
which  we  began  to  meet  with  well  up  on  the 
mountain-side  was  the  painted  trillium,  the  pet- 
als white,  veined  with  pink. 

The  low,  stunted  growth  of  spruce  and  fir 
which  clothes  the  top  of  Slide  has  been  cut 
away  over  a  small  space  on  the  highest  point, 
laying  open  the  view  on  nearly  all  sides.  Here 
we  sat  down  and  enjoyed  our  triumph.  We 
saw  the  world  as  the  hawk  or  the  balloonist 
sees  it  when  he  is  3,000  feet  in  the  air.  How 
soft  and  flowing  all  the  outlines  of  the  hills  and 


44      HEART   OF   THE    SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS 

mountains    beneath     us    looked.      The    foresta 
dropped  down  and   undulated  away  over  them, 
covering  them  like   a  carpet.      To  the  east  we 
looked  over  the  near  by  Whittenburg  range  to 
the  Hudson  and  beyond;  to  the  south  Peek-o'- 
Moose,  with  its  sharp  crest,   and  Table  Moun- 
tain, with  its  long  level  top,  were   the  two  con- 
spicuous objects;  in  the  west,  Mt,  Graham  and 
Double  Top,  about  3,800  feet  each,  arrested  the 
eye ;  while  in  our  front  to  the  north  we  looked 
over  the  top  of  Panther  Mountain  to  the  multi- 
tudinous peaks  of  the  Northern  Catskills.      All 
was  mountain  and  forest  on  every  hand.      Civ- 
ilization seemed  to  have  done  little  more  than 
to  have  scratched  this  rough,  shaggy  surface  of 
the  earth  here  and  there.      In  any  such  view, 
the     Avild,     the    aboriginal,     the     geographical 
greatly  predominate.      The  works  of  man  dwin- 
dle, and  the  original  features  of  the  huge  globe 
come    out.      Every    single    object    or    point    is 
dwarfed;  the  valley  of  the  Hudson  is  only  a 
wrinkle  in  the  earth's  surface.      You  discover 
with  a  feeling  of  surprise  that  the  great  thing 
is    the   earth    itself,    which  stretches    away  on 
every  hand  so  far  beyond  your  ken. 

The  Arabs  believe  that  the  mountains  steady 
the  earth  and  hold  it  together;  but  they  had 
only  to  get  on  the  top  of  a  high  one  to  see  how 
insignificant  they  are,  and  how  adequate  the 
earth  looks  to  get  along  without  them.  To  the 
imaginative  Oriental  people  mountains  seemed 
to  mean  much  more  than  they  do  to  us.  They 
were   sacred;   they   were    the    abodes    of    theii 


HEART   OF   THE    SOUTHERN    CATSKILLS       45 

divinities.  They  offered  their  sacrifices  upon 
them.  In  the  Bible  mountains  are  used  as  a 
symbol  of  that  which  is  great  and  holy.  Jeru- 
salem is  spoken  of  as  a  holy  mountain.  The 
Syrians  were  beaten  by  the  Children  of  Israel 
because,  said  they,  "Their  gods  are  gods  of  the 
hills;  therefore  were  they  stronger  than  we." 
It  was  on  Mount  Horeb  that  God  appeared  to 
Moses  in  the  burning  bush,  and  on  Sinai  that 
he  delivered  to  him  the  law.  Josephus  says 
that  the  Hebrew  shepherds  never  pasture  their 
flocks  on  Sinai,  believing  it  to  be  the  abode  of 
Jehovah.  The  solitude  of  mountain-tops  is 
peculiarly  impressive,  and  it  is  certainly  easier 
to  believe  the  Deity  appeared  in  a  burning 
bush  there  than  in  the  valley  below.  When 
the  clouds  of  heaven,  too,  come  down  and  en- 
velop the  top  of  the  mountain  —  how  such  a 
circumstance  must  have  impressed  the  old  God- 
fearing Hebrews.  Moses  knew  ^vell  how  to 
surround  the  law  with  the  pomp  and  circum- 
stance that  would  inspire  the  deepest  awe  and 
reverence. 

But  when  the  clouds  came  down  and  envel- 
oped us  on  Slide  Mountain  the  grandeur,  the 
solemnity,  was  gone  in  a  twinkling;  the  por- 
tentous-looking clouds  proved  to  be  nothing 
but  base  fog  that  wet  us  and  extinguished  the 
world  for  us.  How  tame,  and  prosy,  and 
humdrum  the  scene  instantly  became.  But 
when  the  fog  lifted,  and  we  looked  from  under 
it  as  from  under  a  just  raised  lid,  and  the  eye 
plunged  again  like  an  escaped  bird  into  those 


46      HEART   OF    THE    SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS 

vast  gulfs  of  space  that  opened  at  our  feet,  the 
feeling  of  grandeur  and  solemnity  quickly  came 
back. 

The  first  want  we  felt  on  the  top  of  Slide, 
after  we  had  got  some  rest,  was  a  want  of 
water.  Several  of  us  cast  about,  right  and 
left,  but  no  sign  of  water  was  found.  But 
water  must  be  had,  so  we  all  started  off  delib- 
erately to  hunt  it  up.  We  had  not  gone  many 
hundred  yards  before  we  chanced  uj^on  an  ice- 
cave  beneath  some  rocks  —  vast  masses  of  ice, 
with  crystal  pools  of  water  near.  This  was 
good  luck  indeed,  and  put  a  new  and  brighter 
face  on  the  situation. 

Slide  Mountain  enjoys  a  distinction  which 
no  other  mountain  in  the  State,  so  far  as  is 
known,  does  —  it  has  a  thrush  peculiar  to  it- 
self. This  thrush  was  discovered  and  described 
by  Eugene  Bicknell  of  New  York,  in  1880, 
and  has  been  named  Bicknell' s  thrush.  A 
better  name  would  have  been  Slide  Mountain 
thrush,  as  the  bird  so  far  has  only  been  found 
on  the  mountain.  I  did  not  see  or  hear  it 
upon  the  Whittenburg,  which  is  only  a  few 
miles  distant,  and  only  two  hundred  feet  lower. 
In  its  appearance  to  the  eye  among  the  trees 
one  would  not  distinguish  it  from  the  gray- 
cheeked  thrush  of  Baird,  or  the  olive-backed 
thrush,  but  its  song  is  totally  different.  The 
moment  I  heard  it  I  said,  "There  is  a  new 
bird,  a  new  thrush,"  as  the  quality  of  all 
thrush  songs  is  the  same.  A  moment  more 
and   I   knew   it   was   Bicknell' s    thrush.      The 


HEART   OF   THE    SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS      47 

song  is  in  a  minor  key,  finer,  more  attenuated, 
and  more  under  the  breath  than  that  of  any- 
other  thrush.  It  seemed  as  if  the  bird  was 
blowing  in  a  delicate,  slender,  golden  tube,  so 
fine  and  yet  so  flute-like  and  resonant  the  song 
appeared.  At  times  it  was  like  a  musical 
whisper  of  great  sweetness  and  power.  The 
birds  were  numerous  about  the  summit,  but  we 
saw  them  nowhere  else.  No  other  thrush  was 
seen,  though  a  few  times  during  our  stay  I 
eaught  a  mere  echo  of  the  hermit's  song  far 
down  the  mountain-side.  A  bird  I  was  not 
prepared  to  see  or  hear  was  the  black  poll  war- 
bler, a  bird  usually  found  much  farther  north, 
but  here  it  was,  amid  the  balsam  firs,  uttering 
its  simple,  lisping   song. 

The  rocks  on  the  tops  of  these  mountains  are 
quite  sure  to  attract  one's  attention,  even  if  he 
have  no  eye  for  such  things.  They  are  masses 
of  light  reddish  conglomerate,  composed  of 
round  wave- worn  quartz  pebbles.  Every  peb- 
ble had  been  shaped  and  polished  upon  some 
ancient  seacoast,  probably  the  Devonian.  The 
rock  disintegrates  where  it  is  most  exposed  to 
the  weather  and  forms  a  loose  sandy  and  pebbly 
soil.  These  rocks  form  the  floor  of  the  coal 
formation,  but  in  the  Catskill  region  only  the 
floor  remains;  the  superstructure  has  nevei 
existed  or  has  been  swept  away;  lience  om 
would  look  for  a  coal  mine  here  over  his  head 
in  the  air,  rather  than  under  his  feet. 

This  rock  did  not  have  to  climb  up  here  as 
we  did;  the  mountain  stooped  and  took  it  upon 


48       HEAKT    OF    THE    SOUTHERN    CATSKILLS 

its  back  in  the  bottom  of  the  old  seas,  and  then 
got  lifted  up  again.  This  happened  so  long 
ago  that  the  memor}^  of  the  oldest  inhabitant  of 
these  parts  yields  no  clew  to  the  time. 

A   pleasant   task   we   had   in   reflooring   and 
reroofing    the    log     hut    with     balsam     boughs 
against   the   night.      Plenty    of    small    balsams 
grew  all  about,  and  we  soon  had  a  huge  pile  of 
their  branches  in  the  old  hut.      What  a  trans- 
formation, this  fresh  green  carpet  and  our  fra- 
grant bed,    like  the  deep-furred  robe  of  some 
huge   animal   wrought   in   that   dingy   interior! 
Two   or   three  things  disturbed  our  sleep.      A 
cup   of   strong   beef-tea   taken   for   supper   dis- 
turbed mine ;  then  the  porcupines  kept  up  such 
a  grunting  and  chattering  near  our  heads,  just 
on  the  other  side  of  the  logs,   that  sleep  was 
difficult.      In  my  wakeful  mood  I  was  a  good 
deal  annoyed  by  a  little  rabbit  that  kept  whip- 
ping in  at  our  dilapidated  door  and  nibbling  at 
our  bread  and  hard-tack.      He   persisted   even 
after  the  gray  of  the  morning  appeared.      Then 
about  four  o'clock  it  began  gently  to  rain.      I 
think   I   heard   the   first   drop   that    fell.      My 
companions  ^vere  all  in  sound  sleep.      The  rain 
increased,    and    gradually    the    sleepers   awoke. 
It  was  like  the  tread  of  an  advancing   enemy 
which  every  ear  had  been  expecting.      The  roof 
over  us  was  of  the  poorest,  and  we  had  no  con- 
fidence in  it.      It  was  made  of  the  thin  bark  of 
spruce  and  balsam,  and  was  full  of  hollows  and 
depressions.      Presently  these  hollows  got  full 
of  water,  when  there  was  a  simultaneous  down- 


HEART    OF   THE    SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS      49 

pour  of  bigger  and  lesser  rills  upon  the  sleepers 
beneath.      Said    sleepers,    as    one    man,    sprang 
up,  each  taking  his  blanket  with  him;  but  by 
the  time  some  of  the  party  had  got  themselves 
stowed  away  under  the  adjacent  rock,  the  rain 
ceased.      It  was  little  more  than  the  dissolving 
of  the  night-cap  of  fog  which  so  often  hangs 
about   these   heights.      With   the    first   appear- 
ance of  the  dawn  I  had  heard  the  new  thrush 
in  the  scattered  trees  near  the  hut  —  a  strain 
as  fine  as  if  blown  upon  a  fairy  flute,  a  sup- 
pressed musical  whisper  from  out  the  tops  of 
the  dark  spruces.      Probably  never  did  there  go 
up  from  the  top  of  a  great  mountain  a  smaller 
song  to  greet  the  day,  albeit  it  was  of  the  pur- 
est  harmony.      It   seemed   to  have  in  a   more 
marked  degree  the  quality  of  interior  reverbera- 
tion than   any   other   thrush   song   I   had   ever 
heard.      Would    the    altitude   or   the   situation 
account  for  its   minor   key?     Loudness   would 
avail  little  in  such  a  place.      Sounds  are  not  far 
heard  on  a  mountain-top;  they  are  lost  in  the 
abyss    of     vacant    air.      But    amid    these    low, 
dense,  dark  spruces,  which  make  a  sort  of  cano- 
pied  privacy   of   every   square   rod   of   ground, 
what  could  be  more  in  keeping  than  this  deli- 
cate   musical   whisper?      It   was    but    the    soft 
hum  of  the  balsams,  interpreted  and  embodied 
in  a  bird's  voice. 

It  was  the  plan  of  two  of  our  companions  to 
go  from  Slide  over  into  the  head  of  the  lion- 
dout,  and  thence  out  to  the  railroad  at  the  little 
village  of  Shokan,  an  unknown  way  to  them, 


50      HEART   OF   THE    SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS 

involving  nearly  an  all-day  pull  the  first  day 
through  a   pathless  wilderness.      AVe   ascended 
to  the  topmost  floor  of  the  tower,  and  from  my 
knowledge  of  the  topography  of  the  country  I 
pointed  out  to  them  their  course,  and  where  the 
valley   of    the    Eondout    must    lie.      The    vast 
stretch  of  woods,  when  it  came  into  view  from 
under  the  foot  of  Slide,  seemed  from  our  point 
of  view  very  uniform.      It  swept  away  to  the 
southeast,   rising  gently  toward  the  ridge  that 
separates  Lone  Mountain  from  Peek  o'  Moose, 
and   iDresented   a   comparatively   easy   problem. 
As   a   clew  to  the  course,    the  line  where  the 
dark  belt  or  saddle-cloth  of  spruce,  which  cov- 
ered the  top  of  the  ridge  they  were  to  skirt, 
ended  and  the  deciduous  woods  began,  a  sharp, 
well-defined  line  was  pointed  out  as  the  course 
to  be  followed.      It  led  straight  to  the  top  of 
the  broad  level-backed   ridge  which   connected 
two    higher    peaks     and    immediately    behind 
which    lay   the    headwaters    of    the    Rondout. 
Having  studied  the  map  thoroughly  and   pos- 
sessed  themselves    of    the    points,    they   rolled 
up  their  blankets  about  nine  o'clock  and  were 
ofi",   my  friend  and  myself  purposing  to  spend 
yet  another  day  and  night  on  Slide.     As  our 
friends  plunged  down  into  that  fearful  abyss, 
we  shouted  to  them  the  old  classic  caution,  "Be 
bold,  be  bold,   he  not  too  bold."     It  required 
courage  to  make  such  a  leap  into  the  unknown 
as  I  knew  those  young  men  were  making,  and 
it  required  prudence.      A  faint  heart  or  a  be- 
wildered head,  and  serious  consequences  might 


HEART    OF   THE    SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS      51 

have  resulted.  The  theory  of  a  thing  is  so 
much  easier  than  the  practice.  The  theory  is 
in  the  air,  the  practice  is  in  the  woods;  the 
eye,  the  thought,  travel  easily  where  the  foot 
halts  and  stumbles.  However,  our  friends 
made  the  theory  and  the  fact  coincide;  they 
kept  the  dividing  line  between  the  spruce  and 
the  birches,  and  j^assed  over  the  ridge  into  the 
valley  safely,  but  they  were  torn  and  bruised 
and  wet  by  the  showers,  and  made  the  last  few 
miles  of  their  journey  on  will  and  pluck  alone, 
their  last  pound  of  positive  strength  having 
been  exhausted  in  making  the  descent  through 
the  chaos  of  rocks  and  logs  into  the  head  of  the 
valley.  In  such  emergencies  one  overdraws 
his  account;  he  travels  on  the  credit  of  the 
strength  he  expects  to  gain  when  he  gets  his 
dinner  and  some  sleep.  Unless  one  has  made 
such  a  trip  himself  (and  I  have  several  times 
in  my  life)  he  can  form  but  a  faint  idea  what 
it  is  like  —  what  a  trial  it  is  to  the  body  and 
what  a  trial  it  is  to  the  mind.  You  are  ficht- 
ing  a  battle  with  an  enemy  in  ambush.  How 
those  miles  and  leagues  which  your  feet  must 
compass  lie  hidden  there  in  that  wilderness; 
how  they  seem  to  multiply  themselves;  how 
they  are  fortified  with  logs,  and  rocks,  and 
fallen  trees;  how  they  take  refuge  in  deep  gul- 
lies, and  skulk  behind  unexpected  eminences! 
Your  body  not  only  feels  the  fatigue  of  the 
battle,  your  mind  feels  the  strain  of  tlie  under- 
taking; you  may  miss  your  mark;  the  moun- 
tains  may   outmanoeuvre   you.      All   that   day, 


52      HEART    OF    THE    SOUTHERN    CATSKILLS 

whenever  I  looked  down  upon  that  treacherous 
wilderness,  I  thought  with  misgivings  of  those 
two  friends  groping  their  way  there,  and  would 
have  given  something  to  have  known  how  it 
fared  with  them.  Their  concern  was  probably 
less  than  my  own,  because  they  were  more 
ignorant  of  what  was  before  them.  Then  there 
was  just  a  slight  shadow  of  a  fear  in  my  mind 
that  I  might  have  been  in  error  about  some 
points  of  the  geography  I  had  pointed  out  to 
them.  But  all  was  well,  and  the  victory  was 
won  according  to  the  campaign  which  I  had 
planned.  When  we  saluted  our  friends  upon 
their  own  doorstep  a  week  afterward,  the 
wounds  were  raarly  all  healed  and  the  rents  all 
mended. 

When  one  is  on  a  mountain-top  he  spends 
most  of  the  time  in  looking  at  the  show  he  has 
been  at  such  pains  to  see.  About  every  hour 
we  would  ascend  the  rude  lookout  to  take  a 
fresh  observation.  With  a  glass  I  could  see 
my  native  hills  forty  miles  away  to  the  north- 
west. I  was  now  upon  the  back  of  the  horse, 
yea,  upon  the  highest  point  of  his  shoulders, 
which  had  so  many  times  attracted  my  atten- 
tion as  a  boy.  We  could  look  along  his  bal- 
sam-covered back  to  his  rump  from  which  the 
eye  glanced  away  down  into  the  forests  of  the 
Neversink,  and  on  the  other  hand  plump  down 
into  the  gulf  where  his  head  was  grazing  or 
drinking.  During  the  day  there  was  a  grand 
procession,  of  thunder-clouds  filing  along  over 
the  Northern  Catskills,  and  letting  down  veils 


HEART    OF    THE    SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS      53 

of  rain  and  enveloping  them.  From  such  an 
elevation  one  has  the  same  view  of  the  clouds 
that  he  does  from  the  prairie  or  the  ocean. 
They  do  not  seem  to  rest  across  and  to  be 
upborne  by  the  hills,  but  they  emerge  out  of 
the  dim  west,  thin  and  vague,  and  grow  and 
stand  up  as  they  get  nearer  and  roll  by  him, 
on  a  level  but  invisible  highway,  huge  chariots 
of  wind  and  storm. 

In  the  afternoon  a  thick  cloud  threatened  us, 
but  it  proved  to  be  the  condensation  of  vapor 
that  announces  a  cold  wave.  There  was  soon 
a  marked  fall  in  the  temperature,  and  as  night 
drew  near  it  became  pretty  certain  that  we  were 
going  to  have  a  cold  time  of  it.  The  wind 
rose,  the  vapor  above  us  thickened  and  came 
nearer,  until  it  began  to  drive  across  the  sum- 
mit in  slender  wraiths,  which  curled  over  the 
brink  and  shut  out  the  view.  We  became  very 
diligent  in  getting  in  our  night  wood,  and  in 
gathering  more  boughs  to  calk  up  the  openings 
in  the  hut.  The  wood  we  scraped  together 
was  a  sorry  lot,  roots  and  stumps  and  branches 
of  decayed  spruce,  such  as  we  could  collect 
without  an  axe,  and  some  rags  and  tags  of  birch 
bark.  The  fire  was  built  in  one  corner  of  the 
shanty,  the  smoke  finding  easy  egress  through 
large  openings  on  the  east  side  and  in  the  roof 
over  it.  We  doubled  up  the  bed,  making  it 
thicker  and  more  nest-like,  and  as  darkness  set 
in  stowed  ourselves  into  it  beneath  our  blank- 
ets. The  searching  wind  found  out  every  crev- 
ice about  our  heads  and  shoulders,  and  it  was 


54      HEART    OF   THE    SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS 

icy  cold.  Yet  we  fell  asleep,  and  had  slept 
about  an  hour  when  my  companion  sprang  up 
in  an  unwonted  state  of  excitement  for  so 
placid  a  man.  His  excitement  was  occasioned 
by  the  sudden  discovery  that  what  ajDpeared  to 
be  a  bar  of  ice  was  fast  taking  the  place  of  his 
backbone.  His  teeth  chattered  and  he  was 
convulsed  with  ague.  I  advised  him  to  replen- 
ish the  fire,  and  to  wrap  himself  in  his  blanket 
and  cut  the  liveliest  capers  he  was  capable  of 
in  so  circumscribed  a  place.  This  he  promptly 
did,  and  the  thought  of  his  wild  and  desperate 
dance  there  in  the  dim  light,  his  tall  form,  his 
blanket  flapping,  his  teeth  chattering,  the  por- 
cupines outside  marking  time  with  their  squeals 
and  grunts,  still  provokes  a  smile,  though  it 
was  a  serious  enough  matter  at  the  time.  Af- 
ter a  while  the  warmth  came  back  to  him,  but 
he  dared  not  trust  himself  again  to  the  boughs; 
he  fought  the  cold  all  night  as  one  might  fight 
a  besieging  foe.  By  carefully  husbanding  the 
fuel,  the  beleaguering  enemy  was  kept  at  bay 
till  morning  came,  but  when  morning  did  come 
even  the  huge  root  he  had  used  as  a  chair  was 
consumed.  Rolled  in  my  blanket  beneath  a 
foot  or  more  of  balsam  boughs,  I  had  got  some 
fairly  good  sleep,  and  was  most  of  the  time 
oblivious  to  the  melancholy  vigil  of  my  friend. 
As  we  had  but  a  few  morsels  of  food  left,  and 
had  been  on  rather  short  rations  the  day  before, 
hunger  was  added  to  his  other  discomforts.  At 
that  time  a  letter  was  on  the  way  to  him  from 
his  wife,   which  contained  this   prophetic  sen- 


HEART   OF   THE   SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS      55 

tence:    "I  hope  thee  is  not  suffering  with  cold 
and  hunger  on  some  lone  mountain- top." 

Mr.  Bicknell's  thrush  struck  up  again  at  the 
first  signs  of  dawn,  notwithstanding  the  cold. 
I  could  hear  his  penetrating  and  melodious 
whisper  as  I  lay  buried  beneath  the  boughs. 
Presently  I  arose  and  invited  my  friend  to  turn 
in  for  a  brief  nap,  while  I  gathered  some  wood 
and  set  the  coffee  brewing.  With  a  brisk,  roar- 
ing fire  on,  I  left  for  the  spring  to  fetch  some 
water  and  to  make  my  toilet.  The  leaves  of  the 
mountain  goldenrod,  which  everywhere  covered 
the  ground  in  the  opening,  were  covered  with 
frozen  particles  of  vapor,  and  the  scene,  shut 
in  by  fog,  was  chill  and  dreary  enough. 

We  were  now  not  long  in  squaring  an  account 
with  Slide,  and  making  ready  to  leave.  Round 
pellets  of  snow  began  to  fall,  and  we  came  off 
the  mountain  on  the  10th  of  June  in  a  Novem- 
ber storm  and  temperature.  Our  purpose  was 
to  return  by  the  same  valley  we  had  come.  A 
well-defined  trail  led  off  the  summit  to  the 
north;  to  this  we  committed  ourselves.  In  a 
few  minutes  we  emerged  at  the  head  of  the 
slide  that  had  given  the  mountain  its  name. 
This  was  the  path  made  by  visitors  to  the 
scene;  when  it  ended  the  track  of  the  avalanche 
began,  no  bigger  than  your  hand  apparently 
had  it  been  at  first,  but  it  rapidly  grew,  until 
it  became  several  rods  in  width.  It  dropped 
down  from  our  feet  straight  as  an  arrow  until 
it  was  lost  in  the  fog,  and  looked  perilously 
eteep.      The    dark   forms    of    the    spruce   were 


56   HEART  OF  THE  SOUTHERN  CATSKILLS 

clinging  to  the  edge  of  it  as  if  reaching  out  to 
their  fellows  to  save  them.  We  hesitated  on 
the  brink,  but  finally  cautiously  began  the 
descent.  The  rock  was  quite  naked  and  slip- 
pery, and  only  on  the  margin  of  the  slide  were 
there  any  bowlders  to  stay  the  foot  or  bushy 
growths  to  aid  the  hand.  As  we  paused,  after 
some  minutes,  to  select  our  course,  one  of  the 
finest  surprises  of  the  trip  awaited  us:  the  fog 
in  our  front  was  swiftly  whirled  up  by  the 
breeze,  like  the  drop-curtain  at  the  theatre,  only 
much  more  rapidly,  and  in  a  twinkling  the  vast 
gulf  opened  before  us.  It  was  so  sudden  as  to 
be  almost  bewildering.  The  world  opened  like 
a  book  and  there  were  the  pictures;  the  spaces 
were  without  a  film,  the  forests  and  mountains 
looked  surprisingly  near;  in  the  heart  of  the 
Northern  Catskills  a  wild  valley  was  seen 
flooded  with  sunlight.  Then  the  curtain  ran 
down  again,  and  nothing  was  left  but  the  gray 
strip  of  rock  to  which  we  clung,  plunging  down 
into  the  obscurity.  Down  and  down  we  made 
our  way.  Then  the  fog  lifted  again.  It  was 
Jack  and  his  bean-stalk  renewed;  new  won- 
ders, new  views,  awaited  us  every  few  moments, 
till  at  last  the  whole  valley  below  us  stood  in 
the  clear  sunshine.  We  passed  down  a  preci- 
pice and  there  was  a  rill  of  water,  the  begin- 
ning of  the  creek  that  wound  through  the  val- 
ley below;  farther  on,  in  a  deep  depression, 
lay  the  remains  of  an  old  snow-bank ;  winter 
had  made  his  last  stand  here,  and  April  flowers 
were  springing  up  almost  amid  his  very  bones. 


HEART   OF   THE    SOUTHERN    CATSKILLS      57 

We  did  not  find  a  palace,  and  a  hungry  giant, 
and  a  princess,  etc.,  at  the  end  of  our  bean- 
stalk, but  we  found  a  humble  roof  and  the 
hospitable  heart  of  Mrs.  Larkins,  which  an- 
swered our  purpose  better.  And  we  were  in  the 
mood,  too,  to  have  undertaken  an  eating  bout 
with  any  giant  Jack  ever  discovered. 

Of  all  the  retreats  I  have  found  amid  the 
Catskills,  there  is  no  other  that  possesses  quite 
so  many  charms  for  me  as  this  valley,  wherein 
stands  Larkins's  humble  dwelling;  it  is  so 
wild,  so  quiet,  and  has  such  superb  mountain 
views.  In  coming  up  the  valley,  you  have 
apparently  reached  the  head  of  civilization  a 
mile  or  more  lower  down;  here  the  rude  little 
houses  end,  and  you  turn  to  the  left  into  the 
woods.  Presently  you  emerge  into  a  clearing 
again,  and  before  you  rises  the  rugged  and 
indented  crest  of  Panther  Mountain,  and  near 
at  hand,  on  a  low  plateau,  rises  the  humble 
roof  of  Larkins,  —  you  get  a  picture  of  the 
Panther  and  of  the  homestead  at  one  glance. 
Above  the  house  hangs  a  high,  bold  cliff  cov- 
ered with  forest,  with  a  broad  fringe  of  black- 
ened and  blasted  treetrunks,  where  the  cack- 
ling of  the  great  pilated  woodpecker  may  be 
heard;  on  the  left  a  dense  forest  sweeps  up  to 
the  sharp  spruce-covered  cone  of  the  Whitten- 
burg,  nearly  four  thousand  feet  high,  while  at 
the  head  of  the  valley  rises  Slide  over  all. 
From  a  meadow  just  back  of  Larkins's  barn,  a 
view  may  be  had  of  all  these  mountains,  while 
the  terraced  side  of  Cross  Mountain  bounds  the 


58   HEAET  OF  THE  SOUTHEKN  CATSKILLS 

view  immediately  to  the  east.  Eimning  from 
the  top  of  Panther  toward  Slide  one  sees  a 
gigantic  wall  of  rock,  crowned  with  a  dark  line 
of  fir.  The  forest  abruptly  ends,  and  in  its 
stead  rises  the  face  of  this  colossal  rocky  escarp- 
ment, like  some  barrier  built  by  the  mountain 
gods.  Eagles  might  nest  here.  It  breaks  the 
monotony  of  the  world  of  woods  very  impres- 
sively. 

I  delight  in  sitting  on  a  rock  in  one  of  these 
upper  fields,  and  seeing  the  sun  go  down  be- 
hind Panther.  The  rapid  flowing  brook  below 
me  fills  all  the  valley  with  a  soft  murmur. 
There  is  no  breeze,  but  the  great  atmospheric 
tide  flows  slowly  in  toward  the  cooling  forest; 
one  can  see  it  by  the  motes  in  the  air  illumi- 
nated by  the  setting  sun:  presently,  as  the  air 
cools  a  little,  the  tide  turns  and  flows  slowly 
out.  The  long,  winding  valley  up  to  the  foot 
of  Slide,  five  miles  of  primitive  woods,  how 
wild  and  cool  it  looks,  its  one  voice  the  mur- 
mur of  the  creek.  On  the  Whittenburg  the 
sunshine  lingers  long;  now  it  stands  up  like  an 
island  in  a  sea  of  shadows,  then  slowly  sinks 
beneath  the  wave.  The  evening  call  of  a  robin 
or  the  thrush  at  his  vespers  makes  a  marked 
impression  on  the  silence  and  the  solitude. 

The  following  day  my  friend  and  I  pitched 
our  tent  in  the  woods  beside  the  stream  where 
I  had  pitched  it  twice  before  and  passed  several 
delightful  days,  with  trout  in  abundance  and 
wild  strawberries  at  intervals.  Mrs.  Larkins's 
cream-pot,  butter-jar,  and  bread- box  were  within 


HEART   OF   THE   SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS      59 

easy  reach.      Near  the  camp  was  an  unusually 
large  spring,  of  icy  coldness,  which  served   as 
our  refrigerator.      Trout   or  milk  immersed  in 
this   spring    in    a   tin    pail   would   keep    sweet 
four  or  live  days.      One  night   some   creature, 
probably  a  lynx  or  a  raccoon,  came  and  lifted 
the  stone  from  the  pail  that  held  the  trout  and 
took  out  a  fine  string  of  them  and  ate  them  up 
on  the  spot,    leaving  only  the  string  and   one 
head.      In    August    bears    come    down     to    an 
ancient  and  now  brushy  bark  peeling  near  by 
for  blackberries.      But  the  creature   that   most 
infests  these  backwoods  is  the  porcupine.      He 
is  as  stupid  and  indifferent  as  the  skunk;  his 
broad,  blunt  nose  points  a  witless  head.      They 
are  great  gnawers,    and  will  gnaw  your   house 
down  if  you  do  not  look  out.      Of  a  summer 
evening  they  will  walk  coolly  into  your  open 
door   if    not    prevented.      The    most    annoying 
animal  to  the  camper-out  in   this   region,    and 
the  one  he  needs  to  be  most  on  the  lookout  for, 
is  the  cow.      Backwoods  cows  and  young  cattle 
seem  always  to  be  famished  for  salt,  and  they 
will  fairly  lick  the  fisherman's  clothes  off  his 
back,  and  his  tent  and  equipage  out  of  exist- 
ence, if  you  give  them  a  chance.      On  one  occa- 
sion some  wood-ranging  heifers  and  steers  that 
had  been  hovering  around  our  camp  for  some 
days  made  a  raid  upon  it  when  we  were  absent. 
The    tent    was    shut    and    everything    snugged 
up,  but  they  ran  their  long  tongues  under  the 
tent,    and,    tasting    something    savory,    hooked 
out  John  Stuart  Mill's  "Essays  on  Keligion," 


60      HEART   OF   THE    SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS 

which  one  of  us  had  brought  along  thinking  to 
read  in  the  woods.  They  mouthed  the  volume 
around  a  good  deal,  but  its  logic  was  too  tough 
for  them,  and  they  contented  themselves  with 
devouring  the  paper  in  which  it  was  wrapped. 
If  the  cattle  had  not  been  surprised  at  just  that 
point,  it  is  probable  the  tent  would  have  gone 
down  before  their  eager  curiosity  and  thirst  for 
salt. 

The  raid  which  Larkins's  dog  made  upon 
our  camp  was  amusing  rather  than  annoying. 
He  was  a  very  friendly  and  intelligent  shep- 
herd dog,  probably  a  collie.  Hardly  had  we 
sat  down  to  our  first  lunch  in  camp  before  he 
called  on  us.  But  as  he  was  disposed  to  be 
too  friendly,  and  to  claim  too  large  a  share  of 
the  lunch,  we  rather  gave  him  the  cold  shoul- 
der. He  did  not  come  again;  but  a  few  even- 
ings afterward,  as  we  sauntered  over  to  the 
house  on  some  trifling  errand,  the  dog  suddenly 
conceived  a  bright  little  project.  He  seemed 
to  say  to  himself,  on  seeing  us,  "There  come 
both  of  them  now,  just  as  I  have  been  hoping 
they  would;  now  while  they  are  away  I  Avill 
run  quickly  over  and  know  what  they  have  got 
that  a  dog  can  eat."  My  companion  saw  the 
dog  get  up  on  our  arrival,  and  go  quickly  in 
the  direction  of  our  camp,  and  he  said  some- 
thing in  the  cur's  manner  suggested  to  him  the 
object  of  his  hurried  departure.  He  called  my 
attention  to  the  fact,  and  we  hastened  back. 
On  cautiously  nearing  camp,  the  dog  was  seen 
amid  the  pails  in  the  shallow  water  of  the  creek 


HEART   OF   THE    SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS      Gl 

investigating  them.  He  had  uncovered  the 
butter,  and  was  about  to  taste  it,  when  we 
shouted,  and  he  made  quick  steps  for  home, 
with  a  very  "kill -sheep"  look.  When  we 
again  met  him  at  the  house  next  day  he  could 
not  look  us  in  the  face,  but  sneaked  off,  utterly 
crestfallen.  This  was  a  clear  case  of  reasoning 
on  the  part  of  the  dog,  and  afterward  a  clear 
case  of  a  sense  of  guilt  from  wrong-doing. 
The  dog  will  probably  be  a  man  before  any 
other  animal. 


BIEDS'    EGGS. 

"Admtre  the  bird's  egg  and  leave  it  in  its 
nest"  is  a  wiser  forbearance  than  "Love  the 
wood-rose  and  leave  it  on  its  stalk."  We  will 
try  to  leave  these  eggs  in  the  nest,  and  as  far 
as  possible  show  the  bird  and  the  nest  with  them. 

The  first  egg  of  spring  is  undoubtedly  a  hen's 
egg.  The  domestic  fowls,  not  being  compelled 
to  shift  for  themselves,  and  having  artificial 
shelter,  are  not  so  mindful  of  the  weather  and 
the  seasons  as  the  wild  birds.  But  the  hen  of 
the  woods  and  the  hen  of  the  prairie,  namely, 
the  ruff'ed  and  the  pinnated  grouse,  do  not 
usually  nest  till  the  season  is  so  far  advanced 
that  danger  from  frost  is  past. 

The  first  wild  egg,  in  New  York  and  New 
England,  is  probably  that  of  an  owl,  the  great 
horned  owl,  it  is  said,  laying  as  early  as 
March.  They  probably  shelter  their  eggs  from 
the  frost  and  the  snow  before  incubation  be- 
gins. The  little  screech-owl  waits  till  April,  and 
seeks  the  deep  snug  cavity  of  an  old  tree;  the 
heart  of  a  decayed  apple-tree  suits  him  well. 
Begin  your  search  by  the  middle  of  April,  and 
before  the  month  is  past  you  will  find  the  four 
white,  round  eggs  resting  upon  a  little  dry  grass 
or  a  few  dry  leaves  in   the  bottom   of  a  long 


BIRDS'   EGGS  63 

cavity.  Owls'  eggs  are  inclined  to  be  spherical. 
You  would  expect  to  see  a  big  round-headed, 
round-eyed  creature  come  out  of  such  an  egg. 

The  passenger  pigeon  nests  before  danger 
from  frost  is  passed;  but  as  it  lays  but  two 
eggs,  probably  in  two  successive  days,  the  risks 
from  this  source  are  not  great;  though  occasion- 
ally a  heavy  April  snowstorm  breaks  them  up. 

Which  is  the  earliest  song-bird's  egg?     One 
cannot  be  quite  so  certain  here,  as  he  can  as  to 
which  the  first  wild-flower  is,  for  instance ;  but 
I  would  take  my  chances  on  finding  that  of  the 
phoebe-bird  first,  and  finding  it  before  the  close 
of  April,  unless  the  season  is  very  backward. 
The  present  season   (1883),   a  pair  built  their 
nest  under  the  eaves  of  my  house,  and  depos- 
ited  their   eggs,    the   last  days  of   the  month. 
Some  English  sparrows  that  had  been  hanging 
around,   and    doubtless  watching    the    phoebes, 
threw  the  eggs  out  and  took  possession  of  the 
nest.      How  shrewd  and  quick  to  take  the  hint 
these  little  feathered  John  Bulls  are.      With  a 
handful   of   rattling   pebble- stones   I   told    this 
couple  very  plainly  that  they  were  not  welcome 
visitors    to    my   premises.      They   fled   precipi- 
tately.    The  next  morning  they  appeared  again, 
but  were   much  shyer.      Another  discharge  of 
pebbles,  and  they  were  off  as  if  bound  for  the 
protection    of    the    British    flag,    and    did    not 
return.     I  notice  wherever  I  go  that  these  birds 
have  got  a  suspicion  in  their  heads  that  public 
opinion  has  changed  with  regard  to  them,  and 
that  they  are  no  longer  M-anted. 


64  BIRDS*   EGGS 

The  eggs  of  the  phoebe-bird  are  snow  white, 
and  when,  in  threading  the  gorge  of  some 
mountain  trout- brook,  or  prowling  about  some 
high,  overhanging  ledge,  one's  eye  falls  upon 
this  mossy  structure  planted  with  such  match- 
less art  upon  a  little  shelf  of  the  rocks,  with 
its  complement  of  five  or  six  pearl-like  eggs,  he 
is  ready  to  declare  it  the  most  pleasing  nest  in 
all  the  range  of  our  bird  architecture.  It  was 
such  a  happy  thought  for  the  bird  to  build 
there,  just  out  of  the  reach  of  all  four-footed 
beasts  of  prey,  sheltered  from  the  storms  and 
winds,  and,  by  the  use  of  moss  and  lichens, 
blending  its  nest  so  perfectly  with  its  surround- 
ings that  only  the  most  alert  eye  can  detect  it. 
An  egg  upon  a  rock,  and  thriving  there,  —  the 
frailest  linked  to  the  strongest,  as  if  the  geol- 
ogy of  the  granite  mountain  had  been  bent  into 
the  service  of  the  bird.  I  doubt  if  crows,  or 
jays,  or  owls  ever  rob  these  nests.  Phoebe  has 
outwitted  them.  They  never  heard  of  the  bird 
that  builded  its  house  upon  a  rock.  "  Strong 
is  thy  dwelling-place,  and  thou  puttest  thy  nest 
in  a  rock." 

The  song-sparrow  sometimes  nests  in  April, 
but  not  commonly  in  our  latitude.  Emerson 
says,  in  "May-Day:"  — 

"  The  sparrow  meek,  prophetic-eyed, 
Her  nest  beside  the  snow-drift  weaves, 
Secure  the  osier  yet  will  hide 
Her  callow  brood  in  mantling  leaves." 

But  the  sparrow  usually  prefers  to  wait  till  the 
snow-drift  is  gone.      I   have   never   found   the 


birds'  eggs  65 

nest  of  one  till  long  after  the  last  drift  had 
disappeared  from  the  fields,  though  a  late  writer 
upon  New  England  birds  says  the  sparrow 
sometimes  lays  in  April,  when  snow  is  yet  upon 
the  ground. 

The  sparrow  is  not  a  beautiful  bird  except  in 
our  afifections  and  associations,  and  its  eggs  are 
not  beautiful  as  eggs  go,  —  four  or  five  little 
freckled  spheres,  that,  like  the  bird  itself,  blend 
well  with  the  ground  upon  which  they  are 
placed. 

The  eggs  of  the  "chippie,"  or  social  sparrow, 
are  probably  the  most  beautiful  of  sparrow 
eggs,  being  of  a  bright  bluish  green  with  a  ring 
of  dark  purple  spots  around  the  larger  end. 

Generally  there  is  but  little  relation  between 
the  color  of  the  bird  and  the  color  of  its  egg. 
For  the  most  part  the  eggs  of  birds  that  occupy 
open,  exposed  nests  are  of  some  tint  that  har- 
monizes well  with  the  surroundings.  With  the 
addition  of  specks  of  various  hue  they  are  ren- 
dered still  less  conspicuous.  The  eggs  of  the 
scarlet  tanager  are  greenish  blue,  with  faint 
brown  or  purplish  markings.  The  blackbird 
lays  a  greenish  blue  egg  also,  with  various 
markings.  Indeed,  the  favorite  ground  tint  of 
the  birds  that  build  open  nests  is  a  greenish 
blue;  sometimes  the  blue  predominates,  some- 
times the  green;  while  the  eggs  of  birds  that 
build  concealed  nests,  or  lay  in  dark  cavities, 
are  generally  white,  as  is  the  case  with  the 
eggs  of  all  our  woodpeckers,  for  instance. 
The    eggs    of    the    bluebird    are    bluish  white. 


66  birds'  eggs 

Among  the  flycatchers,  the  nest  of  the  phoebe 
is  most  concealed,  at  least  from  above,  and  her 
eggs  are  white,  while  those  of  nearly  all  the 
other  species  are  more  or  less  tinted  and 
marked.  The  eggs  of  the  humming-bird  are 
white,  but  the  diminutiveness  of  their  recepta- 
cle is  a  sufficient  concealment.  Another  white 
egg  is  that  of  the  kingfisher,  deposited  upon 
fish-bones  at  the  end  of  a  hole  in  the  bank 
eight  or  nine  feet  long.  The  bank  swallow 
also  lays  white  eggs,  as  does  the  chimney  swal- 
low, the  white-bellied  swallow,  and  the  purple 
martin.  The  eggs  of  the  barn  swallow  and 
0115"  swallow  are  more  or  less  speckled.  In 
England  the  kingfisher  (smaller  and  much  more 
brilliantly  colored  than  ours),  woodpeckers,  the 
bank  swallow,  the  swift,  the  wry-neck  (related 
to  the  woodpecker),  and  the  dipper,  also  lay 
white  eggs. 

A  marked  exception  to  the  above  rule  is 
furnished  by  the  eggs  of  the  Baltimore  oriole, 
perhaps  the  most  fantastically  marked  of  all 
our  birds'  eggs.  One  would  hardly  expect  a 
plainly  marked  egg  in  such  a  high-swung, 
elaborately  woven,  deeply  pouched,  aristocratic 
nest.  The  threads  and  strings  and  horsehairs 
with  which  the  structure  is  sewed  and  bound 
and  sta^^ed  are  copied  in  the  curious  lines  and 
markings  of  the  treasures  it  holds.  After  the 
oriole  is  through  with  its  nest,  it  is  sometimes 
taken  possession  of  by  the  house  wren  in  which 
to  rear  its  second  brood.  The  long,  graceful 
cavity,    with   its   fine   carpet   of   hair,    is  filled 


birds'  eggs  67 

with  coarse  twigs,  as  if  one  were  to  build  a  log 
hut  in  a  palace,  and  the  rusty- colored  eggs  of 
the  little  busybody  deposited  there.  The  wren 
would  perhaps  stick  to  its  bundle  of  small 
fagots  in  the  box  or  pump  tree,  and  rear  its 
second  brood  in  the  cradle  of  the  first,  were  it 
not  that  by  seeking  new  lodgings  time  can  be, 
saved.  The  male  bird  builds  and  furnishes  the 
second  nest,  and  the  mother  bird  has  begun  to 
lay  in  it  before  the  first  is  empty. 

The  chatter  of  a  second  brood  of  nearly 
fledged  wrens  is  heard  now  (August  20)  in  an 
oriole's  nest  suspended  from  the  branch  of  an 
apple-tree  near  where  I  write.  Earlier  in  the. 
season  the  parent  birds  made  long  and  deter- 
mined attempts  to  establish  themselves  in  a 
cavity  that  had  been  occupied  by  a  pair  of  blue- 
birds. The  original  proprietor  of  the  place 
was  the  downy  woodpecker.  He  had  excavated 
it  the  autumn  before  and  had  passed  the  winter 
there,  often  to  my  certain  knowledge  lying 
abed  till  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  In  the 
spring  he  went  elsewhere,  probably  with  a 
female,  to  begin  the  season  in  new  quarters. 
The  bluebirds  early  took  possession,  and  in 
June  their  first  brood  had  flown.  The  wrens 
had  been  hanging  around,  evidently  with  an 
eye  on  the  place  (such  little  comedies  may  be 
witnessed  anywhere),  and  now  very  naturally 
thought  it  was  their  turn.  A  day  or  two  after 
the  young  bluebirds  had  flown,  I  noticed  some 
fine,  dry  grass  clinging  to  the  entrance  to  the 
cavity;  a    circumstance  which   I   understood  a 


68  birds'  eggs 

few  moments  later,  when  the  wren  rushed  by 
me  into  the  cover  of  a  small  Norway  spruce, 
hotly  pursued  by  the  male  bluebird.  It  was  a 
brown  streak  and  a  blue  streak  pretty  close 
together.  The  wrens  had  gone  to  house-clean- 
ing, and  the  bluebird  had  returned  to  find  his 
bed  and  bedding  being  pitched  out-of-doors, 
and  had  thereupon  given  the  wrens  to  under- 
stand in  the  most  emphatic  manner  that  he  had 
no  intention  of  vacating  the  premises  so  early 
in  the  season.  Day  after  day,  for  more  than 
two  weeks,  the  male  bluebird  had  to  clear  his 
premises  of  these  intruders.  It  occupied  much 
of  his  time  and  not  a  little  of  mine,  as  I  sat 
with  a  book  in  a  summer-house  near  by,  laugh- 
ing at  his  pretty  fury  and  spiteful  onset.  On 
two  occasions  the  wren  rushed  under  the  chair 
in  which  I  sat,  and  a  streak  of  blue  lightning 
almost  flashed  in  my  very  face.  One  day,  just 
as  T  had  passed  the  tree  in  which  the  cavity 
was  placed,  I  heard  the  wren  scream  desper- 
ately; turning,  I  saw  the  little  vagabond  fall 
into  the  grass  with  the  wrathful  bluebird  fairly 
upon  him;  the  latter  had  returned  just  in  time 
to  catch  him,  and  was  evidently  bent  on  pun- 
ishing him  well.  But  in  the  squabble  in  the 
grass  the  wren  escaped  and  took  refuge  in  the 
friendly  evergreen.  The  bluebird  paused  for  a 
moment  with  outstretched  wings  looking  for 
the  fugitive,  then  flew  away.  A  score  of  times 
during  the  month  of  June  did  I  see  the  wren 
taxing  every  energy  to  get  away  from  the  blue- 
bird.     He    would    dart    into    the    stone    wall, 


birds'  eggs  69 

under  the  floor  of  the  summer-house,  into  the 
weeds  —  anywhere  to  hide  his  diminished  head. 
The  bhiebird  with  his  bright  coat  looked  like 
an  officer  in  uniform  in  pursuit  of  some  wicked, 
rusty  little  street  gamin.  Generally  the  favor- 
ite house  of  refuge  of  the  wrens  was  the  little 
spruce,  into  which  their  pursuer  made  no 
attempt  to  follow  them.  The  female  would  sit 
concealed  amid  the  branches,  chattering  in  a 
scolding,  fretful  way,  while  the  male  with  his 
eye  upon  his  tormentor  would  perch  on  the  top- 
most shoot  and  sing.  Why  he  sang  at  such 
times,  whether  in  triumph  and  derision,  or  to 
keep  his  courage  up  and  reassure  his  mate,  I 
could  not  make  out.  When  his  song  was  sud- 
denly cut  short  and  I  glanced  to  see  him  dart 
down  into  the  spruce,  my  eye  usually  caught 
a  twinkle  of  blue  wings  hovering  near.  The 
wrens  finally  gave  up  the  fight,  and  their  ene- 
mies reared  their  second  brood  in  peace. 

That  the  wren  should  use  such  coarse,  refrac- 
tory materials,  especially  since  it  builds  in  holes 
where  twigs  are  so  awkward  to  carry  and  ad- 
just, is  curious  enough.  All  its  congeners,  the 
marsh  Avrens,  the  Carolina  wren,  the  winter 
wren,  build  of  soft  flexible  materials.  The 
nest  of  the  winter  wren,  and  of  the  English 
''Jenny  Wren,"  is  mainly  of  moss,  and  is  a 
marvel  of  softness  and  warmth. 

One  day  a  swarm  of  honey-bees  went  into 
my  chimney,  and  I  mounted  the  stack  to  see 
into  which  flue  they  had  gone.  As  I  craned 
my  neck  above  the  sooty  vent,  with  the  bees 


70  BIEDS'    EGGS 

humming  about  my  ears,  the  first  thing  my  eye 
rested  upon  in  the  black  interior  was  two  long 
white  pearls  upon  a  little  shelf  of  .twigs,    the 
nest    of    the     chimney    swallow,    or     swift,  — 
honey,  soot,  and  birds'  eggs  closely  associated. 
The  bees,  though  in  an  unused  flue,  soon  found 
the  gas  of  anthracite  that  hovered  about  the  top 
of  the  chimney  too  much  for  them,  and  they 
left.      But   the   swallows   are   not    repelled    by 
smoke.      They  seem  to  have  entirely  abandoned 
their  former  nesting-places  in  hollow  trees  and 
stumps    and    to    frequent    only    chimneys.      A 
tireless  bird,  never  perching,  all  day  upon'  the., 
wing  and  probably  capable  of  flying  one  thou-  ' 
sand  miles  in   twenty-four   hours;  they  do  not 
even   stop  to  gather  materials  for  their  nests, 
but  snap  ofi"  the  small  dry  twigs  from  the  tree- 
tops  as  they  fly  by.      Confine  one  of  thesfe  swal- 
lows to  a  room  and  it  will  not  perch,  but  after 
flying  till  it  becomes  bewildered  and  exhausted^, 
it  clings  to  the  side  of  the  wall  till  it  dies.      I 
once  found  one  in  my  room  on  returning,  after 
several    days'    absence,    in   which    life    seemed 
nearly  extinct;  its  feet  grasped  my  finger  as  I 
removed  it  from  the  wall,  but  its  eyes  closed 
and  it  seemed  about  on  the  point  of  joining  its 
companion    which    lay    dead    upon    the    floor. 
Tossing   it   into   the   air,    however,    seemed    to 
awaken    its    wonderful    powers    of    flight,    and 
away  it  went  straight  toward  the  clouds.      On 
the  wing   the   chimney  swallow  looks   like   an 
athlete    stripped    for    the   race.      There   is   the 
least  appearance  of  quill  and  plumage  of  any  of 


birds'  eggs  71 

oar  birds,  and,  with  all  its  speed  and  marvel- 
ous evolutions,  the  effect  of  its  flight  is  stiff  and 
wiry.      There  appears  to  be  but  one   joint   in 
the  wmg,  and  that  next  the  body.      This  pecu- 
liar inflexible  motion  of  the  wings,  as  if  they 
were  little  sickles  of  sheet   iron,   seems   to   be 
owing  to  the  length  and  development   of   the 
primary  quills  and  the  smallness  of  the  secon- 
dary.     The  wing  appears  to  hinge  only  at  the 
wrist.      The   barn   swallow  lines   its   rude   ma- 
sonry with  feathers,  but  the  swift  begins  life  on 
bare  twigs,  glued  together  by  a  glue  of  home 
manufacture  as  adhesive  as  Spaulding's. 

I  have  wondered  if  Emerson  referred  to  any 
particular  bird  in  these  lines  from  "The  Prob- 
lem. " 

"Know'st  thou  what  wove  yon  wood-bird's  nest 
O^  leaves,  and  feathers  from  her  breast  ?  " 

Probably  not,  but  simply  availed  himself  of 
the  general  belief  that   certain   birds  or  fowls 
lined  their  nests  with  their  own  feathers.     This 
is   notably   true   of   the   eider   duck,    and  in  a 
measure  of  our  domestic  fowls,  but  so  far  as  I 
know  is   not  true   of  any   of  our  small   birds. 
The  barn  swallow  and  house  Avren  feather  their 
nests   at   the   expense    of  the  hens  and  geese. 
The  winter  wren  picks  up  the  feathers  of  the 
ruffed     grouse.       The      chickadee,     Emerson's 
favorite  bird,  uses  a  few  feathers  in  its  uphol- 
stering,   but    not    its     own.      In     England,    I 
noticed  that  the  little  willow  warbler  makes  a 
free    use    of    feathers    from    the   poultry  yard. 
Many  of  our  birds  use  hair  in  their  nests,  and 


72  birds'  eggs 

the  kingbird  and  cedar-bird  like  wool.  I  have 
found  a  single  feather  of  the  bird's  own  in  the 
nest  of  the  phoebe.  Such  a  circumstance  would 
perhaps  justify  the  poet. 

About  the  first  of  June  there  is  a  nest  in  the 
woods  upon  the  ground  with  four  creamy  w^hite 
eggs  in  it  spotted  w^ith  brown  or  lilac,  chiefly 
about  the  larger  ends,  that  always  gives  the 
walker,  who  is  so  lucky  as  to  find  it,  a  thrill  of 
pleasure.  It  is  like  a  ground-sparrow's  nest 
with  a  roof  or  canopy  to  it.  The  little  brown 
or  olive  backed  bird  starts  away  from  your  feet 
and  runs  swiftly  and  almost  silently  over  the 
dry  leaves,  and  then  turns  her  speckled  breast 
to  see  if  you  are  following.  She  walks  very 
prettily,  by  far  the  prettiest  pedestrian  in  the 
woods.  But  if  she  thinks  you  have  discovered 
her  secret,  she  feigns  lameness  and  disability 
of  both  legs  and  wing,  to  decoy  you  into  the 
pursuit  of  her.  This  is  the  golden-crowned 
thrush,  or  accentor,  a  strictly  wood-bird,  about 
the  size  of  a  song-sparrow,  with  the  dullest  of 
gold  upon  his  crown,  but  the  brightest  of  songs 
in  his  heart.  The  last  nest  of  this  bird  I 
found  was  while  in  quest  of  the  pink  cypripe- 
dium.  We  suddenly  spied  a  couple  of  the 
flowers  a  few  steps  from  the  path  along  which 
we  were  Avalking  and  had  stooped  to  admire 
them,  when  out  sprang  the  bird  from  beside 
them,  doubtless  thinking  she  was  the  subject  of 
observation  instead  of  the  flowers  that  swung 
their  purple  bells  but  a  foot  or  two  above  her. 
But  we  never  should  have  seen   her  had   she 


birds'  eggs  73 

kept  her  place.  She  had  found  a  rent  in  the 
matted  carpet  of  dry  leaves  and  pine  needles 
that  covered  the  ground,  and  into  this  had 
insinuated  her  nest,  the  leaves  and  needles 
forming  a  canopy  above  it,  sloping  to  the  south 
and  west,  the  source  of  the  more  frequent  sum- 
mer rains. 

At  about  the  same  time  one  finds  the  nest 
above  described,  if  he  were  to  explore  the 
woods  very  thoroughly,  he  might  chance  upon 
two  curious  eggs  lying  upon  the  leaves  as  if 
dropped  there  by  chance.  They  are  elliptical, 
both  ends  of  a  size,  about  an  inch  and  a  quarter 
long,  of  a  creamy  white  spotted  with  lavender. 
These  are  the  eggs  of  the  whippoorwill,  a  bird 
that  has  absolutely  no  architectural  instincts 
or  gifts.  Perhaps  its  wide,  awkward  mouth  and 
short  beak  are  ill-adapted  to  carrying  nest  ma- 
terials. It  is  awkward  upon  the  ground  and 
awkward  upon  the  tree,  being  unable  to  perch 
upon  a  limb,  except  lengthwise  of  it. 

The  song  and  game  birds  lay  pointed  eggs, 
but  the  night  birds  lay  round  or  elliptical  eggs. 

The  egg  collector  sometimes  stimulates  a 
bird  to  lay  an  unusual  number  of  eggs.  A 
youth,  whose  truthfulness  I  do  not  doubt,  told 
me  he  once  induced  a  highhole  to  lay  twenty- 
nine  eggs,  by  robbing  her  of  an  egg  each  day. 
The  eggs  became  smaller  and  smaller,  till  the 
twenty-ninth  one  was  only  the  size  of  a  chip- 
pie's egg.  At  this  point  the  bird  gave  up  the 
contest. 

There  is  a  last  egg  of  summer  as  well  as  a 


74  birds'  eggs 

first  egg  of  spring,  but  one  cannot  name  either 
with  much  confidence.  Both  the  robin  and 
the  chippie  sometimes  rear  a  third  brood  in 
August,  but  the  birds  that  delay  their  nesting 
till  midsummer  are  the  goldfinch  and  the  cedar- 
bird,  the  former  waiting  for  the  thistle  to  ripen 
its  seeds,  and  the  latter  probably  for  the  appear- 
ance of  certain  insects  which  it  takes  on  the 
wing.  Often  the  cedar-bird  does  not  build  till 
August,  and  will  line  its  nest  with  wool  if  it 
can  get  it,  even  in  this  sultry  month.  The 
eggs  are  marked  and  colored,  as  if  a  white  egg 
were  to  be  spotted  with  brown,  then  colored  a 
pale  blue,  then  again  sharply  dotted  or  blotched 
with  blackish  or  purplish  spots. 

But  the  most  common  August  nest  with  me 
—  early  August  —  is  that  of  the  goldfinch,  — 
a  deep,  snug,  compact  nest,  with  no  loose  ends 
hanging,  placed  in  the  fork  of  a  small  limb  of 
an  apple-tree,  peach-tree,  or  ornamental  shade- 
tree.     The  eggs  are  a  faint  bluish  white. 

While  the  female  is  sitting,  the  male  feeds 
her  regularly.  She  calls  to  him  on  his  ap- 
proach, or  when  she  hears  his  voice  passing  by, 
in  the  most  afi'ectionate,  feminine,  childlike 
tones,  the  only  case  I  know  of  where  the  sitting 
bird  makes  any  sound  while  in  the  act  of  incu- 
bation. When  a  rival  male  invades  the  tree, 
or  approaches  too  near,  the  male  whose  nest  it 
holds  pursues  and  reasons  or  expostulates  with 
him  in  the  same  bright,  amicable,  confiding 
tones.  Indeed,  most  birds  make  use  of  their 
Bwe.eteot  notes  in  war.      The  song  of  love  is  the 


birds'  eggs  75 

song  of  battle  too.  The  male  yellow-birds  flit 
about  from  point  to  point,  apparently  assuring 
each  other  of  the  highest  sentiments  of  esteem 
and  consideration,  at  the  same  time  that  one 
intimates  to  the  other  that  he  is  carrying  his 
joke  a  little  too  far.  It  has  the  effect  of  saying 
with  mild  and  good-humored  surprise,  "  Why, 
my  dear  sir,  this  is  my  territory ;  you  surely  do 
not  mean  to  trespass;  permit  me  to  salute  you, 
and  to  escort  you  over  the  line."  Yet  the 
intruder  does  not  always  take  the  hint.  Occa- 
sionally the  couple  have  a  brief  sparring  match 
in  the  air,  and  mount  up  and  up,  beak  to  beak, 
to  a  considerable  height,  but  rarely  do  they 
actually  come  to  blows. 

-  The  yellow-bird  becomes  active  and  conspic- 
uous after  the  other  birds  have  nearly  all  Avith- 
drawn  from  the  stage  and  become  silent,  their 
broods  reared  and  flown.  August  is  his  month, 
his  festive  season.  It  is  his  turn  now.  The 
thistles  are  ripening  their  seeds,  and  his  nest  is 
undisturbed  by  jay-bird  or  crow.  He  is  the  first 
bird  I  hear  in  the  morning,  circling  and  swing- 
ing through  the  air  in  that  peculiar  undulating 
flight  and  calling  out  on  the  do^vnward  curve 
of  each  stroke,  "Here  we  go,  here  we  go!" 
Every  hour  in  the  day  he  indulges  in  his  cir- 
cling, billowy  flight.  It  is  a  part  of  his  musi- 
cal performance.  His  course  at  such  times  is 
a  deeply  undulating  line,  like  the  long  gentle 
roll  of  the  summer  sea,  the  distance  from  crest 
to  crest  or  from  valley  to  valley  being  probably 
thirty  feet;  this  distance  is  made  with  but  one 


76  birds'  eggs 

brief  beating  of  the  wings  on  the  downward 
curve.  As  he  quickly  opens  them  they  give 
him  a  strong  upward  impulse  and  he  describes 
the  long  arc  with  them  closely  folded.  Thus 
falling  and  recovering,  rising  and  sinking  like 
dolphins  in  the  sea,  he  courses  through  the 
summer  air.  In  marked  contrast  to  this  feat 
is  his  manner  of  flying  when  he  indulges  in  a 
brief  outburst  of  song  in  the  air.  Now  he  flies 
level,  with  broad  expanded  wings  nearly  as 
round  and  as  concave  as  two  shells,  which  beat 
the  air  slowly.  The  song  is  the  chief  matter 
now,  and  the  wings  are  used  only  to  keep  him 
afloat  while  delivering  it.  In  the  other  case 
the  flight  is  the  main  concern,  and  the  voice 
merely  punctuates  it. 

I  know  no  autumn  egg  but  a  hen's  egg, 
though  a  certain  old  farmer  tells  me  he  finds  a 
quail's  nest  full  of  eggs  nearly  every  Septem- 
ber; but  fall  progeny  of  any  kind  has  a  belated 
start  in  life,  and  the  chances  are  agayist  it. 


BIRD   COUETSHIP 

There  is  something  about  the  matchmaking 
of  birds  that  is  not  easily  penetrated.  The 
jealousies  and  rivalries  of  the  males  and  of  the 
females  is  easily  understood  —  it  is  quite 
human;  but  those  sudden  rushes  of  several 
males,  some  of  them  already  mated,  after  one 
female,  with  squeals  and  screams  and  a  great 
clatter  of  wings  —  what  does  it  mean  1  There 
is  nothing  human  about  that,  unless  it  be  illus- 
trative of  a  trait  that  has  at  times  cropped  out 
in  the  earlier  races  and  which  is  still  seen 
among  the  Esquimaux,  where  the  male  carries 
off  the  female  by  force.  But  in  these  sudden 
sallies  among  the  birds  the  female,  so  far  as  I 
have  observed,  is  never  carried  off.  One  may 
see  half  a  dozen  English  sparrows  engaged  in 
what  at  first  glance  appears  to  be  a  general 
melee  in  the  gutter  or  on  the  sidewalk,  but  if 
you  look  more  closely  you  will  see  a  single 
female  in  the  midst  of  the  mass,  beating  off  the 
males  who,  with  plumage  puffed  out  and 
screaming  and  chattering,  are  all  making  a  set 
at  her.  She  strikes  right  and  left,  and  seems 
to  be  equally  displeased  with  them  all.  But 
her  anger  may  be  all  put  on,  and  she  may  be 
giving  the  wink  all  the  time  to  her  favorite. 


78  BIRD   COURTSHIP 

The  Esquimaux  maiden  is  said  by  Doctor  Nan- 
sen  to  resist  stoutly  being  carried  off  even  by 
the  man  she  is  desperately  in  love  with. 

In  the  latter  half  of  April  we  pass  through 
what  I  call  the  "robin  racket"  —  trains  of 
three  or  four  birds  rushing  pell-mell  over  the 
lawn  and  fetching  up  in  a  tree  or  bush,  or 
occasionally  upon  the  ground,  all  piping  and 
screaming  at  the  top  of  their  voices,  but 
whether  in  mirth  or  anger  it  is  hard  to  tell. 
The  nucleus  of  the  train  is  a  female.  One 
cannot  see  that  the  males  in  pursuit  of  her  are 
rivals;  it  seems  rather  as  if  they  had  united  to 
hustle  her  out  of  the  place.  But  somehow  the 
matches  are  no  doubt  made  and  sealed  during 
these  mad  rushes.  Maybe  the  female  shouts 
out  to  her  suitors,  "Who  touches  me  first 
wins,"  and  away  she  scurries  like  an  arrow. 
The  males  shout  out,  "Agreed!"  and  away 
they  go  in  pursuit,  each  trying  to  outdo  the 
other.  The  game  is  a  brief  one.  Before  one 
can  get  the  clew  to  it  the  party  has  dipersed. 

Earlier  in  the  season  the  pretty  sparring  of 
the  males  is  the  chief  feature.  You  may  see 
two  robins  apparently  taking  a  walk  or  a  run 
together  over  the  sward  or  along  the  road;  only 
first  one  bird  runs,  and  then  the  other.  They 
keep  a  few  feet  apart,  stand  very  erect,  and  the 
course  of  each  describes  the  segment  of  an  arc 
about  the  other,  thus :  — 


How    courtly    and    deferential     their    manners 


BIRD    COURTSHIP  79 

toward  each  other  are ;  often  they  pipe  a  shrill, 
fine  strain,  audible  only  a  few  yards  away. 
Then,  in  a  twinkling,  one  makes  a  spring  and 
they  are  beak  to  beak  and  claw  to  claw  as  they 
rise  up  a  few  feet  into  the  air.  But  usually 
no  blow  is  delivered;  not  a  feather  is  ruffled; 
each,  I  suppose,  finds  the  guard  of  the  other 
perfect.  Then  they  settle  down  upon  the 
ground  again  and  go  through  with  the  same 
running  challenge  as  before.  How  their  breasts 
glow  in  the  strong  April  sunlight;  how  perk 
and  military  the  bearing  of  each!  Often  they 
will  run  about  each  other  in  this  way  for  many 
rods.  After  a  week  or  so  the  males  seem  to 
have  fought  all  their  duels,  when  the  rush  and 
racket  I  have  already  described  begins. 

The  bluebird  wins  his  mate  by  the  ardor  of 
his  attentions  and  the  sincerity  of  his  compli- 
ments, and  by  finding  a  house  ready  built 
which  cannot  be  surpassed.  The  male  blue- 
bird is  usually  here  several  days  before  the 
female,  and  he  sounds  forth  his  note  as  loudly 
and  eloquently  as  he  can  till  she  appears.  On 
her  appearance  he  flies  at  once  to  the  box  or 
tree  cavity  upon  which  he  has  had  his  eye,  and 
as  he  looks  into  it  calls  and  warbles  in  his  most 
persuasive  tones.  The  female  at  such  times  is 
always  shy  and  backward,  and  the  contrast  in 
the  manners  of  the  two  birds  is  as  striking  as 
the  contrast  in  their  colors.  The  male  is  bril- 
liant and  ardent;  the  female  is  dim  and  retir- 
ing, not  to  say  indifferent.  She  may  take  a 
hasty  peep  into  the  hole  in  the  box  or  tree  and 


80  BIRD   COURTSHIP 

then  fly  away,  uttering  a  lonesome,  homesick 
note.  Only  by  a  wooing  of  many  days  is  she 
to  be  fully  won. 

The  past  April  I  was  witness  one  Sunday 
morning  to  the  jealousies  that  may  rage  in 
these  little  brown  breasts.  A  pair  of  bluebirds 
had  apparently  mated  and  decided  to  occupy  a 
woodpecker's  lodge  in  the  limb  of  an  old  apple- 
tree  near  my  study.  But  that  morning  another 
male  appeared  on  the  scene  and  was  bent  on 
cutting  the  first  male  out,  and  carrying  off  his 
bride.  I  happened  to  be  near  by  when  the 
two  birds  came  into  collision.  They  fell  to 
the  grass  and  kept  their  grip  upon  each  other 
for  half  a  minute.  Then  they  separated  and 
the  first  up  flew  to  the  hole  and  called  fondly 
to  the  female.  This  was  too  much  for  the 
other  male  and  they  clinched  again  and  fell  to 
the  ground  as  before.  There  they  lay  upon 
the  grass,  blue  and  brown  intermingled.  But 
not  a  feather  was  tweaked  out  or  even  dis- 
turbed, that  I  could  see.  They  simply  held 
each  other  down.  Then  they  separated  again, 
and  again  rushed  upon  each  other.  The  battle 
raged  for  about  fifteen  minutes,  when  one  of 
the  males,  which  one,  of  course,  I  could  not 
tell,  withdrew  and  flew  to  a  box  under  the 
eaves  of  the  study  and  exerted  all  the  eloquence 
he  possessed  to  induce  the  female  to  come  to 
him  there.  How  he  warbled  and  called  and 
lifted  his  wings  and  flew  to  the  entrance  to  the 
box  and  called  again!  The  female  was  evi- 
dently  strongly   attracted;   she   would   respond 


BIRD    COURTSHIP  81 

and  fly  about  halfway  to  an  apple-tree  and  look 
toward  him.      The  other  male  in  the  mean  time 
did  his  best  to  persuade  her  to  cast  her  lot  with 
him.      He  followed  her  to  the  tree  toward  his 
rival,  and  then  flew  back  to  the  nest  and  spread 
his  plumage  and  called  and  warbled,  oh,  so  con- 
fidently, so  fondly,  so  reassuringly !     When  the 
female  would  return  and  peep  into  the  hole  in 
the  tree  what  fine,  joyous  notes  he  would  utter; 
then  he  would  look  in  and  twinkle  his  wings 
and   say   something   his   rival   could   not   hear. 
This  vocal  and  pantomimic  contest  went  on  for 
a  long  time.      The  female  was  evidently  greatly 
shaken  in  her  allegiance  to  the  male  in  the  old 
apple-tree.      In     less     than    an    hour    another 
female  responded  to  the  male  who  had  sought 
the  eaves  of  the  study,  and  flew  with  him  to 
the  box.      Whether  this  was  their  first  meeting 
or  not  I  do  not  know,  but  it  was  clear  enough 
that  the  heart  of  the  male  was  fixed  upon  the 
bride  of  his  rival.      He  would  devote  himself  a 
moment  to  the  new-comer  and  then  turn  toward 
the  old  apple-tree,  and  call  and  lift  his  Avings. 
Then,  apparently  admonished  by  the  bird  near 
him,  would  turn  again  to  her  and  induce  her  to 
look  into  the   box   and  warble  fondly.      Then 
up  on  a  higher  branch  again,  with  his  attention 
directed  toward  his  first  love,    between  whom 
and  himself  salutations  seemed  constantly  pass- 
ing.     This  little  play  went  on  for  some  time, 
when  the  two  females  came  into  collision,  and 
fell   to  the  ground  tweaking  each  other  spite- 
fully.     Then  the  four  birds  drifted  away  from 


82  BIRD    COURTSHIP 

me  down  into  the  vineyard,  where  the  males 
closed  with  each  other  again  and  fell  to  the 
ploughed  ground  and  lay  there  a  surprisingly 
long  time,  nearly  two  minutes,  as  we  calcu- 
lated. Their  wings  were  outspread,  and  their 
forms  were  indistinguishable.  They  tugged  at 
each  other  most  doggedly,  one  or  the  other 
brown  breast  was  generally  turned  up,  partly 
overlaid  by  a  blue  coat.  They  were  deter- 
mined to  make  a  finish  of  it  this  time,  but 
which  got  the  better  of  the  fight  I  could  not 
tell.  But  it  was  the  last  battle;  they  finally 
separated,  neither,  apparently,  any  the  worse 
for  the  encounter.  The  females  fought  two 
more  rounds,  the  males  looking  on  and  warbling 
approvingly  when  they  separated,  and  the  two 
pairs  drifted  away  in  different  directions.  The 
next  day  they  were  about  the  box  and  tree 
again,  and  seemed  to  have  definitely  settled 
matters.  Who  won  and  who  lost  I  do  not 
know,  but  two  pairs  of  bluebirds  have  since 
been  very  busy  and  very  happy  about  the  two 
nesting  places.  One  of  the  males  I  recognize 
as  a  bird  that  appeared  early  in  March;  I  rec- 
ognize him  from  one  peculiar  note  in  the  midst 
of  his  warble,  a  note  that  suggests  a  whistle. 

The  matchmaking  of  the  highholes,  which 
often  comes  under  my  observation,  is  in  marked 
contrast  to  that  of  the  robins  and  bluebirds. 
There  does  not  appear  to  be  any  anger  or  any 
blows.  The  male  or  two  males  will  alight  on 
a  limb  in  front  of  the  female,  and  go  through 
with  a  series  of  bowings  and  scrapings  that  are 


BIRD   COURTSHIP  83 

truly  comical.  He  spreads  his  tail,  he  puffs 
out  his  breast,  he  throws  back  his  head,  and 
then  bends  his  body  to  the  right  and  to  the 
left,  uttering  all  the  while  a  curious  musical 
hiccough.  The  female  confronts  him  unmoved, 
but  whether  her  attitude  is  critical  or  defensive  I 
cannot  tell.  Presently  she  flies  away,  followed 
by  her  suitor  or  suitors,  and  the  little  comedy  is 
enacted  on  another  stump  or  tree.  Among  all 
the  woodpeckers  the  drum  plays  an  important 
part  in  the  matchmaking.  The  male  takes 
up  his  stand  on  a  dry,  resonant  limb,  or  on  the 
ridgeboard  of  a  building,  and  beats  the  loudest 
call  he  is  capable  of.  The  downy  woodpecker 
usually  has  a  particular  branch  to  which  he 
resorts  for  advertising  his  matrimonial  wants. 
A  favorite  drum  of  the  highholes  about  me  is 
a  hollow  wooden  tube,  a  section  of  a  pump 
which  stands  as  a  bird  box  upon  my  summer- 
house.  It  is  a  good  instrument;  its  tone  is 
sharp  and  clear.  A  highhole  alights  upon  it 
and  sends  forth  a  rattle  that  can  be  heard  a 
long  way  off.  Then  he  lifts  up  his  head  and 
utters  that  long  April  call,  Wick,  wick,  wick, 
wick.  Then  he  drums  again.  If  the  female 
does  not  find  him  it  is  not  because  he  does  not 
make  noise  enough.  But  his  sounds  are  all 
welcome  to  the  ear.  They  are  simple  and 
primitive  and  voice  well  a  certain  sentiment  of 
the  April  days.  As  I  write  these  lines  I  hear 
through  the  half-open  door  his  call  come  up 
from  a  distant  field.  Then  I  hear  the  steady 
hammering  of  one  that  has  been  for  three  days 


84  BIRD   COURTSHIP 

trying  to  penetrate  the  weather  boarding  of  the 
big  icehouse  by  the  river  and  reach  the  sawdust 
filling  for  a  nesting  place. 

Among  our  familiar  birds  the  matchmaking 
of  none  other  is  quite  so  pretty  as  that  of  the 
goldfinch.  The  goldfinches  stay  with  us  in 
lorn  flocks  and  clad  in  a  dull  olive  suit  through- 
out the  winter.  In  May  the  males  begin  to 
put  on  their  bright  summer  plumage.  This  is 
the  result  of  a  kind  of  superficial  moulting. 
Their  feathers  are  not  shed,  but  their  dusky 
covering  or  overalls  are  cast  off.  When  the 
process  is  only  partly  completed  the  bird  has  a 
smutty,  unpresentable  appearance.  But  we 
seldom  see  them  at  such  times.  They  seem  to 
retire  from  society.  When  the  change  is  com- 
plete and  the  males  have  got  their  bright  uni- 
forms of  yellow  and  black  the  courting  begins. 
All  the  goldfinches  of  a  neighborhood  collect 
together  and  hold  a  sort  of  a  musical  festival. 
To  the  number  of  many  dozens  they  may  be 
seen  in  some  large  tree,  all  singing  and  calling 
in  the  most  joyous  and  vivacious  manner. 
The  males  sing,  and  the  females  chirp  and  call. 
Whether  there  is  actual  competition  on  a  trial 
of  musical  abilities  of  the  males  before  the 
females  or  not  I  do  not  know.  The  best  of 
feeling  seems  to  pervade  the  company;  there  is 
no  sign  of  quarreling  or  fighting;  "all  goes 
merry  as  a  marriage  bell,"  and  the  matches 
seem  actually  to  be  made  during  these  musical 
picnics.  Before  May  is  passed  the  birds  are 
seen    in   couples,    and    in    June    housekeeping 


BIRD    COURTSHIP  85 

usually  begins.  This  I  call  the  ideal  of  love- 
making  among  birds,  and  is  in  striking  contrast 
to  the  squabbles  and  jealousies  of  most  of  our 
songsters. 

I  have  known  the  goldfinches  to  keep  up 
this  musical  and  lovemaking  festival  through 
three  consecutive  days  of  a  cold  northeast  rain- 
storm. Bedraggled,  but  ardent  and  happy,  the 
birds  were  not  to  be  dispersed  by  wind  or 
weather. 

All  the  woodpeckers,  so  far  as  I  have  ob- 
served, drum  up  their  mates;  the  male  adver- 
tises his  wants  by  hammering  upon  a  dry, 
resonant  limb,  when  in  due  time  the  female 
approaches  and  is  duly  courted  and  won.  The 
drumming  of  the  ruffed  grouse  is  for  the  same 
purpose ;  the  female  hears,  concludes  to  take  a 
walk  that  way,  approaches  timidly,  is  seen  and 
admired,  and  the  match  is  made.  That  the 
male  accepts  the  first  female  that  ofi"ers  herself 
is  probable.  Among  all  the  birds  the  choice, 
the  selection,  seems  to  belong  to  the  female. 
The  males  court  promiscuously ;' the  females 
choose  discreetly.  The  grouse,  unlike  the 
woodpecker,  always  carries  his  drum  with  him, 
which  is  his  own  proud  breast;  yet,  if  undis- 
turbed, he  selects  some  particular  log  or  rock  in 
the  woods  from  which  to  sound  forth  his  will- 
ingness to  wed.  What  determines  the  choice 
of  the  female  it  would  be  hard  to  say.  Among 
song-birds  it  is  probably  the  best  songster,  or 
the  one  whose  voice  suits  her  taste  best: 
Among  birds  of  bright  plumage  it  is  probably 


86  BIRD   COURTSHIP 

the  gayest  dress;  among  the  drummers  she  is 
doubtless  drawn  by  some  quality  of  the  sound. 
Our  ears  and  eyes  are  too  coarse  to  note  any 
differences  in  these  things,  but  doubtless  the 
birds  themselves  note  differences. 

Birds  show  many  more  human  traits  than  do 
quadrupeds.  That  they  actually  fall  in  love 
admits  of  no  doubt;  that  there  is  a  period  of 
courtship,  during  which  the  male  uses  all  the 
arts  he  is  capable  of  to  win  his  mate,  is  equally 
certain;  that  there  are  jealousies  and  rivalries, 
and  that  the  peace  of  families  is  often  rudely 
disturbed  by  outside  males  or  females  is  a  com- 
mon observation.  The  females,  when  they 
c6me  to  blows,  fight  much  more  spitefully  and 
recklessly  than  do  the  males.  One  species  of 
bird  has  been  known  to  care  for  the  young  of 
another  species  which  had  been  made  orphans. 
The  male  turkey  will  sometimes  cover  the  eggs 
of  his  mate  and  hatch  and  rear  the  brood  alone. 
Altogether,  birds  often  .  present  some  marked 
resemblances  in  their  actions  to  men,  when  love 
is  the  moti^'«. 

Mrs.  Martin,  in  her  *  *  Home  Life  on  an  Os- 
trich Farm,"  relates  this  curious, incident:  — 

"One  undutiful  hen  —  having  apparently 
imbibed  advanced  notions  —  absolutely  refused 
to  sit  at  all,  and  the  poor  husband,  determined 
not  to  be  disappointed  of  his  little  family,  did 
all  the  work  himself,  sitting  bravely  and  pa- 
tiently day  and  night,  though  nearly  dead  with 
exhaustion,  till  the  chicks  were  hatched  out. 
The  next  time  this  pair  of  birds  had  a  nest  the 


BIRD   COUETSHIP  87 

cock's  mind  was  firmly  made  up  that  he  would 
stand  no  more  nonsense.  He  foyght  the  hen 
■[kicked  her],  giving  her  so  severe  a  thrashing 
that  she  was  all  but  killed,  and  this  Petruchio- 
like  treatment  had  the  desired  effect,  for  the 
wife  never  again  rebelled,  but  sat  submis- 
sively. " 

In  the  case  of  another  pair  of  ostriches  of 
which  Mrs.  Martin  tells,  the  female  was  acci- 
dentally killed,  when  the  male  mourned  her 
loss  for  over  two  years  and  would  not  look  at 
another  female.  He  wandered  up  and  down, 
up  and  down,  the  length  of  his  camp,  utterly 
disconsolate.  At  last  he  mated  again  with  a 
most  magnificent  hen,  who  ruled  him  tyranni- 
cally; he  became  the  most  hen-pecked,  or, 
rather,  hen-kicked  of  husbands. 


^ 


NOTES   FROM   THE   PEAIRIE 

The  best  lesson  I  have  had  for  a  long  time 
in  the  benefits  of  contentment  and  of  the  value 
of  one's  own  nook  or  corner  of  the  world,  how- 
ever circumscribed  it  may  be,  as  a  point  from 
which  to  observe  nature  and  life,  comes  to  me 
from  a  prairie  correspondent,  an  invalid  lady, 
confined  to  her  room  year  in  and  year  out,  and 
yet  who  sees  more  and  appreciates  more  than 
many  of  us  who  have  the  freedom  of  a  whole 
continent.  Having  her  permission,  why  should 
I  not  share  these  letters  with  my  readers,  espe- 
cially since  there  are  other  house-bound  or  bed- 
bound  invalids  whom  they  may  reach  and  who 
may  derive  some  cheer  or  suggestion  from 
them?  AVords  uttered  in  a  popular  magazine 
like  "The  Century"  are  like  the  vapors  that  go 
up  from  the  ground  and  the  streams:  they  are 
sure  to  be  carried  far  and  wide,  and  to  fall 
again  as  rain  or  dew,  and  one  little  knows  what 
thirsty  plant  or  flower  they  may  reach  and 
nourish.  I  am  thinking  of  another  fine  spirit, 
couch-bound  in  one  of  the  northern  New  Eng- 
land States,  who  lives  in  a  town  that  bears  the 
same  name  as  that  in  which  my  Western  cor- 
respondent resides,  and  into  whose  chamber  my 
slight  and  desultory  papers  have  also  brought 


NOTES   FROM   THE    PKAIKIE  89 

something  of  the  breath  of  the  fields  and  woods, 
and  who  in  return  has  given  me  many  glimpses 
of  nature  through  eyes  purified  by  suffering. 

Women  are  about  the  best  lovers  of  nature, 
after  all;  at  least  of  nature  in  her  milder  and 
more  familiar  forms.  The  feminine  character, 
the  feminine  perceptions,  intuitions,  delicacy, 
sympathy,  quickness,  etc.,  are  more  responsive 
to  natural  forms  and  influences  than  is  the  mas- 
culine mind. 

My  Western  correspondent  sees  existence  as 
from  an  altitude,  and  sees  where  the  comple- 
ments and  compensations  come  in.  She  lives 
upon  the  prairie,  and  she  says  it  is  as  the  ocean 
to  her,  upon  which  she  is  adrift,  and  always 
expects  to  be,  until  she  reaches  the  other  shore. 
Her  house  is  the  ship  which  she  never  leaves. 
"What  is  visible  from  my  window  is  the  sea, 
changing  only  from  winter  to  summer  as  the 
sea  changes  from  storm  to  sunshine.  But  there 
is  one  advantage,  —  messages  can  come  to  me 
continually  from  all  the  wide  world." 

One  summer  she  wrote  she  had  been  hoping 
to  be  well  enough  to  renew  her  acquaintance 
with  the  birds,  the  flowers,  the  woods,  but 
instead  was  confined  to  her  room  more  closely 
than  ever. 

"It  is  a  disappointment  to  me,  but  I  decided 
long  ago  that  the  wisest  plan  is  to  make  the 
best  of  things;  to  take  what  is  given  you,  and 
make  the  most  of  it.  To  gather  up  the  frag- 
ments that  nothing  may  be  lost,  api)lies  to 
one's  life  as  well  as  to  other  i/hiiigs.      Though 


90  NOTES   FROM   THE    PRAIRIE 

I  cannot  walk,  I  can  think  and  read  and  write; 
probably  I  get  my  share  of  pleasure  from 
sources  that  well  people  are  apt  to  neglect.  I 
have  learned  that  the  way  to  be  happy  is  to 
keep  so  busy  that  thoughts  of  self  are  forced 
out  of  sight ;  and  to  live  for  others,  not  for  our- 
selves. 

"  Sometimes,  when  I  think  over  the  matter, 
I  am  half  sorry  for  well  people,  because,  you 
see,  I  have  so  much  better  company  than  they 
can  have,  for  I  have  so  much  more  time  to  go 
all  over  the  world  and  meet  all  the  best  and 
wisest  peojDle  in  it.  Some  of  them  died  long 
ago  to  the  most  of  people,  but  to  me  they  are 
just  as  much  alive  as  they  ever  were;  they  give 
me  their  best  and  wisest  thoughts  without  the 
disagreeable  accompaniments  others  must  en- 
dure. Other  people  use  their  eyes  and  ears 
and  pens  for  me;  all  I  have  to  do  is  to  sit  still 
and  enjoy  the  results.  Dear  friends  I  have 
everywhere,  though  I  am  unknown  to  them; 
what  right  have  I  to  wish  for  more  privileges 
than  I  have  ?  " 

There  is  philosophy  for  you  —  philosophy 
which  looks  fate  out  of  countenance.  It  seems 
that  if  we  only  have  the  fortitude  to  take  the 
ills  of  life  cheerfully  and  say  to  fortune,  "Thy 
worst  is  good  enough  for  me,"  behold  the  worst 
is  already  repentant  and  fast  changing  to  the 
best.  Love  softens  the  heart  of  the  inevitable. 
The  magic  phrase  which  turns  the  evil  spirits 
into  good  angels  is,  "I  am  contented."  Hap- 
I)iness  is  always  at  one's  elbow,   it  seems,   in 


NOTES   FROM   THE    PRAIRIE  91 

one  disguise  or  another;  all  one  has  to  do  is  to 
stop  seeking  it  afar,  or  stop  seeking  it  at  all, 
and  say  to  this  unwelcome  attendant,  "  Be  thou 
my  friend,"  when,  lo,  the  mask  falls,  and  the 
angel  is  disclosed.  Certain  rare  spirits  in  this 
world  have  accepted  poverty  with  such  love 
and  pride  that  riches  at  once  became  contempti- 
ble. 

My  correspondent  has  the  gift  of  observation. 
In  renouncing  self  she  has  opened  the  door  for 
many  other  things  to  enter.  In  cultivating  the 
present  moment,  she  cultivates  the  present  in- 
cident. The  power  to  see  things  comes  of 
that  mental  attitude  which  is  directed  to  the 
now  and  the  here :  keen,  alert  perceptions, 
those  faculties  that  lead  the  mind  and  take  the 
incident  as  it  flies.  Most  people  fail  to  see 
things  because  the  print  is  too  small  for  their 
vision;  they  read  only  the  large-lettered  events 
like  the  newspaper  headings,  and  are  apt  to 
miss  a  part  of  these,  unless  they  see  in  some 
way  their  own  initials  there. 

The  small  type  of  the  lives  of  bird  and  beast 
about  her  is  easily  read  by  this  cheerful  invalid. 
"To  understand  that  the  sky  is  everywhere 
blue,"  says  Goethe,  "we  need  not  go  around 
the  world ; "  and  it  would  seem  that  this 
woman  has  got  all  the  good  and  pleasure  there 
is  in  natural  history  from  the  pets  in  her  room, 
and  the  birds  that  build  before  her  window.  I 
had  been  for  a  long  time  trying  to  determine 
whether  or  not  the  blue-jay  hoarded  up  nuts 
for  winter  use,  but  had  not  been  able  to  settle 


92  NOTES   FROM   THE   PRAIRIE 

the  point.  I  applied  to  her,  and,  sitting  by 
her  window,  she  discovered  that  jays  do  indeed 
hoard  food  in  a  tentative,  childish  kind  of  way, 
but  not  with  the  cunning  and  provident  fore- 
sight of  the  squirrels  and  native  mice.  She 
saw  a  jay  fly  to  the  ground  with  what  proved 
to  be  a  peanut  in  its  beak  and  carefully  cover 
it  up  with  leaves  and  grass.  * '  The  next  fall, 
looking  out  of  my  own  window,  I  saw  two  jays 
hiding  chestnuts  with  the  same  blind  instinct. 
They  brought  them  from  a  near  tree  and  cov- 
ered them  up  in  the  grass,  putting  but  one  in 
a  place.  Subsequently,  in  another  locality,  I 
saw  jays  similarly  employed.  It  appears  to  be 
simply  the  crow  instinct  to  steal,  or  to  carry 
away  and  hide  any  superfluous  morsel  of  food." 
The  jays  were  really  planting  chestnuts  instead 
of  hoarding  them.  There  was  no  possibility  of 
such  supplies  being  available  in  winter,  and  in 
spring  a  young  tree  might  spring  from  each 
nut.  This  fact  doubtless  furnishes  a  key  to 
the  problem  why  a  forest  of  pine  is  usually 
succeeded  by  a  forest  of  oak.  The  acorns  are 
planted  by  the  jays.  Their  instinct  for  hiding 
things  prompts  them  to  seek  the  more  dark  and 
secluded  pine  woods  with  their  booty,  and  the 
thick  layer  of  needles  furnishes  an  admirable 
material  with  which  to  cover  the  nut.  The 
germ  sprouts  and  remains  a  low  slender  shoot 
for  years,  or  until  the  pine  woods  are  cut  away, 
when  it  rapidly  becomes  a  tree. 

My  correspondent   thinks   the   birds   possess 
some  of  the  frailties  of  human  beings;  among 


NOTES    FKOM    THE    PRAIRIE  98 

other     things,     ficklcmindedness.      "I     beiieve 
they  build  nests  just  for  the  fun  of  it,  to  pass 
away  the  time,   to  have   something   to   chatter 
about  and  dispute  over."      (I  myself  have  seen 
a  robin  play  at  nest  building  late  in  October, 
and  have   seen   two   young   bluebirds   ensconce 
themselves  in  an  old  thrush's  nest  in  the  fall 
and  appear  to  amuse  themselves  like  children, 
while  the  wind  made  the  branch  sway  to  and 
fro.)      "Now   my   wrens'    nest    is    so    situated 
that  nothing   can   disturb   them,   and   where   I 
can  see  it  at  any  time.      They  have  often  made 
a    nest   and   left   it.      A   year  ago,    during  the 
latter  part  of  May,  they  built  a  nest,  and  in  a 
few  days  they  kicked  everything  out  of  the  box 
and  did  the  work  all  over  again,  repeating  the 
operation  all  July,  then  left  the  country  with- 
out    accomplishing     anything     further.      This 
season    they   reared    one    brood,    built   another 
nest,  and,  I  think,  laid  one  or  more  eggs,  idled 
around   a   few   weeks,    and   then   went   away." 
(This  last  was  probably  a  "cock-nest,"  built  by 
the  male  as  a  roosting  place.)     "  I  have  noticed, 
too,    that   blue-jays   build   their   apology  for 
nest,  and  abandon  it  for  another  place  in  the 
same  tree."     Her  jays  and  wrens  do  not  live 
together  on  the  most  amiable  terms.      "  I  had 
much   amusement   while    the   jay   was    on   the 
nest,  watching  the  actions  of  the  wrens  whose 
nest   was   under   the   porch   close   by  the  oak. 
Perched  on  a  limb  over  the  jay,  the  male  wren 
sat  flirting  his  tail  and  scolding,  evidently  say- 
ing all  the  insulting  things  he  could  think  of ; 


a 


94  NOTES   FROM   THE    PRAIRIE 

for  after  enduring  it  for  some  time,  the  jay 
would  fly  off  its  nest  in  a  rage,  and,  with  the 
evident  intention  of  impaling  Mr.  Wren  with 
his  bill,  strike  down  vengefully  and  —  find  his 
bill  fast  in  the  bark,  while  his  enemy  was 
somewhere  else,  squeaking  -  in  derision.  They 
kept  that  up  day  after  day,  but  the  wren  is  too 
lively  to  be  caught  by  a  large  bird. 

"I  have  never  had  the  opportunity  to  dis- 
cover whether  there  was  any  difference  in  the 
dispositions    of    birds   of   the   same   species;  it 
would  take  a  very  close  and  extended  observa- 
tion to  determine  that;  but  I  do  know  there  is 
as  much  difference  between  animals  as  between 
human  beings   m   that   respect.      Horses,    cats, 
dogs,   squirrels,  —  all   have  their   own  individ- 
uality.      I    have    had   five    gray    squirrels    for 
pets,    and    even    their    features    were     unlike. 
Fred  and  Sally  were  mates,  who  were  kept  shut 
up  in  their  cages  all  the  time.      Fred  was  won- 
derfully   brave,    would    strut    and    scold    until 
there  was  something  to  be  afraid  of,  then  would 
crouch  down  behind  Sally  and  let  her  defend 
him,    the  sneak!      He  abused  her  shamefully, 
but  she  never  resented  it.      Being  the   larger, 
she    could    have    whipped    him    and    not    half 
tried;     but    she    probably    labored    under    the 
impression,   which   is   shared  by   some   people^ 
that  it  is  a  wife's  duty  to  submit  to  whatever 
abuse   the   husband   chooses   to   inflict.      Their 
characters   reminded   me    so    stro'ngly   of    some 
people  I  have  seen  that  I  used  to  take  Fred  out 
and  whip  him  regularly,  as  a  sort  of  vicarioua 


NOTES    FROM   THE    PRAIKIE  95 

punishment  of  those  who  deserved  it.  Chip 
was  a  gentle,  pretty  squirrel,  fond  of  being 
petted,  spent  most  of  her  time  in  my  pocket  or 
around  my  neck,  but  she  died  young;  probably 
she  was  too  good  to  live. 

"Dick,  lazy  and  a  glutton,  also  died  young, 
from  over-eating.  Chuck,  the  present  pet,  has 
Satan's  own  temper  —  very  ugly  —  but  so  in- 
telligent that  she  is  the  plague  of  our  lives, 
though  at  the  same  time  she  is  a  constant 
source  of  amusement.  It  is  impossible  to 
remain  long  angry  with  her,  however  atrocious 
her  crimes  are.  AVe  are  obliged  to  let  her  run 
loose  through  the  house,  for  when  shut  up  she 
squeals  and  chatters  and  rattles  her  cage  so  we 
can't  endure  it.  From  one  piece  of  mischief 
to  another  as  fast  as  she  can  go,  she  requires 
constant  watching.  She  knows  what  is  forbid- 
den very  well,  for  if  I  chance  to  look  at  her 
after  she  has  been  up  to  mischief,  she  quickly 
drops  down  flat,  spreads  her  tail  over  her  back, 
looking  all  the  time  so  very  innocent  that  she 
betrays  herself.  If  I  go  towards  her,  she 
springs  on  my  back,  where  I  cannot  reach  her 
to  whip  her.  She  never  bites  me,  but  if  others 
tease  her  she  is  very  vicious.  When  I  tease 
her  she  relieves  her  feelings  by  biting  any  one 
else  who  happens  to  be  in  the  room;  and  it  is 
no  slight  matter  being  bitten  by  a  squirrel's 
sharp  teeth.  Knowing  that  the  other  members 
of  the  family  are  afraid  of  her,  she  amuses  her- 
self by  putting  nuts  in  their  shoes,  down  their 
necks,    or  in   their  hair,    then   standing   guard, 


96  NOTES   FEOM   THE    PRAIRIE 

SO  that  if  they  remove  the  nuts  she  flies  at 
them. 

''Chuck  will  remember  an  injury  for  months, 
and  take  revenge  whenever  opportunity  offers. 
She  claims  all  the  nuts  and  candy  that  come 

into  the  house,  searching  Mr.  B 's  pockets 

on  Sundays  J  never  on  other  days.  I  don't  see 
how  she  distinguishes,  unless  from  the  fact  that 
he  comes  home  early  on  that  day.  Once  when 
she  caught  one  of  the  girls  eating  some  of  her 
nuts,  she  flew  at  her,  bit  her,  and  began  carry- 
ing off  the  nuts  to  hide  as  fast  as  she  could. 
For  months  afterward  she  would  slip  slyly  up 
and  bite  the  girl.  She  particularly  despises 
my  brother,  he  teases  her  so,  and  gives  her  no 
chance  to  bite;  so  she  gets  even  with  him  by 
tearing  up  everything  of  his  she  can  find,  —  his 
books,  his  gloves,  etc. ;  and  if  she  can  get  into 
the  closet  where  I  keep  the  soiled  clothing, 
she  will  select  such  articles  as  belong  to  him, 
and  tear  them  up !  And  she  has  a  wonderful 
memory,  never  forgets  where  she  puts  things; 
people  whom  she  has  not  seen  for  several  years 
she  remembers. 

"  She  had  the  misfortune  to  have  about  two 
inches  of  her  tail  cut  off,  by  being  caught  in  the 
door,  which  made  it  too  short  to  be  used  for 
wiping  her  face;  it  would  slip  out  of  her 
hands,  making  her  stamp  her  feet  and  chatter 
her  teeth  with  anger.  By  experimenting,  she 
found  by  backing  up  in  a  corner  it  was  pre- 
vented from  slipping  out  of  her  reach.  Have 
had  her  five  years ;  wonder  how  long  their  lives 


NOTES   FROM    THE    PRAIRIE  97 

nsually  are  ?  One  of  my  neighbors  got  a  young 
squirrel,  so  young  tliat  it  required  milk;  so 
they  got  a  small  nursing-bottle  for  it.  Until 
that  squirrel  was  over  a  year  old,  whenever  he 
got  hungry,  he  would  get  his  bottle  and  sit  and 
hold  it  up  as  if  he  thought  that  quite  the 
proper  way  for  a  squirrel  to  obtain  his  nourish- 
ment. It  was  utterly  comical  to  see  him.  We 
have  no  black  squirrels;  a  few  red  ones  and  a 
great  many  gray  ones  of  different  kinds." 

I  was  much  interested  in  her  pet  squirrel, 
and  made  frequent  inquiries  about  it.  A  year 
later  she  writes:  "My  squirrel  still  lives  and 
rules  the  house.  She  has  an  enemy  that  causes 
her  much  trouble,  — a  rat  that  comes  into  the 
wood- shed.  I  had  rioticed  that  whenever  she 
went  out  there,  she  investigated  the  dark  cor- 
ners with  care  before  she  ventured  to  play,  but 
did  not  understand  it  till  I  chanced  to  be  sit- 
ting in  the  kichen  door  once,  as  she  was  dig- 
ging up  a  nut  she  had  buried.  Just  as  she  got 
it  up,  a  great  rat  sprung  on  her  back;  there 
ensued  a  trial  of  agility  and  strength  to  see 
which  should  have  that  nut.  Neither  seemed 
to  be  angry,  for  they  did  not  attempt  to  bite, 
but  raced  around  the  shed,  cuffing  each  other 
at  every  opportunity ;  sometimes  one  had  the 
nut,  sometimes  the  other.  I  regret  to  say  my 
squirrel,  whenever  she  grew  tired,  took  a  base 
advantage  of  the  rat  by  coming  and  sitting  at 
my  feet,  gnawing  the  nut,  and  plainly  showing 
by  her  motions  her  exultation  over  her  foe. 
Finally  the  rat  became  so  exasperated  that  ha 


98  NOTES   FROM   THE    PRAIRIE 

forgot  prudence   and  forced  her  to  climb  up  on 
my  shoulder. 

"  In  an  extract  from  a  London  paper  I  see  it 
asserted  that  birds  and  snakes  cannot  taste. 
As  to  the  snakes  I  cannot  say,  but  I  know 
birds  can  taste,  from  observing  my  canary  when 
I  give  him  something  new  to  eat.  He  will 
edge  up  to  it  carefully,  take  a  bit,  back  off  to 
meditate;  then  if  he  decides  he  likes  it,  he 
walks  up  boldly  and  eats  his  fill.  But  if  there 
is  anything  disagreeable  in  what  I  offer  him, 
acid,  for  instance,  there  is  such  a  fuss!  He 
scrapes  his  bill,  raises  and  lowers  the  feathers 
on  the  top  of  his  head,  giving  one  the  impres- 
sion that  he  is  making  a  wry  face.  He  cannot 
be  induced  to  touch  it  a  second  time. 

"I  have  taught  him  to  think  I  am  afraid  of 
him,  and  how  he  tyrannizes  over  me,  chasing 
me  from  place  to  place,  pecking  and  squeaking! 
He  delights  in  pulling  out  my  hair.  When 
knitting  or  crocheting,  he  tries  to  prevent  my 
pulling  the  yarn  by  standing  on  it;  when  that 
fails,  he  takes  hold  with  his  bill  and  pulls  with 
all  his  little  might." 

Some  persons  have  a  special  gift  or  quality 
that  enables  them  to  sustain  more  intimate 
relations  with  wild  creatures  than  others. 
Women,  as  a  rule,  are  ridiculously  afraid  of 
cattle  and  horses  turned  loose  in  a  field,  but 
my  correspondent,  when  a  young  girl,  had 
many  a  lark  with  the  prairie  colts.  "  Is  it  not 
strange,"  she  says,  "that  a  horse  will  rarely 
hurt   a   child,    or   any   person   that   is   fond   of 


NOTES   FKOM    THE    PRAIRIE  99 

them  ?  To  see  a  drove  of  a  hundred  or  even  a 
hundred  and  fifty  unbroken  colts  branded  and 
turned  out  to  grow  up  was  a  common  occur- 
rence then  [in  her  childhood].  I  could  go 
among  them,  catch  them,  climb  on  their  backs, 
and  they  never  offered  to  hurt  me;  they  seemed 
to  consider  it  fun.  They  would  come  up  and 
touch  me  with  their  noses  and  prance  off  around 
and  around  me;  but  just  let  a  man  come  near 
them,  and  they  were  off  like  the  wind." 

All    her   reminiscences   of   her   early  life   in 
Iowa,    thirty  years  ago,   are  deeply  interesting 
to  me.      Her  parents,  a  Boston  family,  moved 
to  that  part  of  the  State  in  advance  of  the  rail- 
roads, making  the  journey  from  the  Mississippi 
in  a  wagon.      "My  father  had  been  fortunate 
enough  to  find  a  farm  with  a  frame  house  upon 
it    (the  houses  were  mostly  log  ones)   built  by 
an  Englishman  whose  homesickness  had  driven 
him   back  to  England.      It  stood  upon  a  slight 
elevation  in  the  midst  of  a  prairie,  though  not 
a  very  level  one.      To  the  east  and  to  the  west 
of  us,  about  four  miles  away,  were  the  woods 
along  the  banks  of  the  streams.      It  was  in  the 
month  of  June  when  we  came,  and  the  prairie 
was  tinted  pink  with  wild  roses.      From  early 
spring  till  late  in  the  fall  the  ground  used  to 
be  so  covered  with  some  kinds  of  flowers  that 
it  had  almost  as   decided   a   color   as   the   sky 
itself,  and  the  air  would  be  fragrant  with  their 
perfume.      First    it    is   white   with    '  dog-toes ' 
[probably  an  orchid],    then   a   cold   blue  from 
being    covered   with    some  kind   of    light  blue 


100  NOTES   FROM   THE    PRAIRIE 

flower;  next  come  the  roses;  in  July  and 
August  it  is  pink  with  the  '  prairie  pink, ' 
dotted  with  scarlet  lilies;  as  autumn  comes  on 
it  is  vivid  with  orange- colored  flowers.  I 
never  knew  their  names;  they  have  woody 
stalks;  one  kind  that  grows  about  a  foot  high 
has  a  feathery  spray  of  little  blossoms  [golden- 
rod?].  There  are  several  kinds  of  tall  ones; 
the  blossom  has  yellow  leaves  and  brown  vel- 
vety centres  [cone-flower,  or  rudbeckia,  prob- 
ably, now  common  in  the  East].  We  young- 
sters used  to  gather  the  gum  that  exuded  from 
the  stalk.  Every  one  was  poor  in  those  days, 
and  no  one  was  ashamed  of  it.  Plenty  to  eat, 
such  as  it  was.  We  introduced  some  innova- 
tions in  that  line  that  shocked  the  people  here. 
We  used  corn  meal ;  they  said  it  was  only  fit 
for  hogs.  Worse  than  that,  we  ate  '  greens ' 
—  weeds,  they  called  them.  It  does  not  seem 
possible,  but  it  is  a  fact,  that  with  all  those 
fertile  acres  around  them  waiting  for  cultiva- 
tion, and  to  be  had  almost  for  the  asking,  those 
people  (they  were  mainly  Hoosiers)  lived  on 
fried  salt  pork,  swimming  in  fat,  and  hot  bis- 
cuit all  the  year  round;  no  variety,  no  vegeta- 
bles, no.  butter  saved  for  winter  use,  no  milk 
after  cold  weather  began,  for  it  was  too  much 
trouble  to  milk  the  cows  —  such  a  shiftless  set! 
And  the  hogs  they  raised  —  you  should  have 
seen  them !  '  Prairie  sharks '  and  '  razor- 
backs  were  the  local  names  for  them,  and 
either  name  fitted  them ;  long  noses,  long  legs, 
bodies  about  five  inches  thick,  and  no  amount 


NOTES   FROM   THE    PRAIRIE  101 

of  food  would  make  them  fat.  They  were 
allowed  to  run  wild  to  save  the  trouble  of  car- 
ing for  them,  and  when  the  pork-barrel  was 
empty  they  sliot  one. 

"Everybody  drove  oxen  and  used  lumber- 
wagons  with  a  board  across  the  box  for  a  seat. 
How  did  we  ever  endure  it,  riding  over  the 
roadless  prairies !  Then,  any  one  who  o\\  ned 
a  horse  was  considered  an.  aristocrat  and  de- 
spised accordingly.  One  yoke  of  oxen  that  we 
had  were  not  to  be  sneezed  at  as  a  fast  team. 
They  were  trained  to  trot,  and  would  make 
good  time  too."  [I  love  to  hear  oxen  praised. 
An  old  Michigan  farmer,  an  early  settler,  told 
me  of  a  famous  pair  of  oxen  he  once  had;  he 
spoke  of  them  with  great  affection.  They 
would  draw  any  log  he  hitched  them  to. 
When  they  had  felt  of  the  log  and  found  they 
had  their  match,  he  said  they  would  nudge  each 
other,  give  their  tails  a  kink,  lift  up  their 
heads,  and  say  eh-h-h-h !  then  something  had 
to  come.] 

"One  phrase  you  used  in  your  last  letter  — 
*  the  start  from  the  stump  '  •  —  shows  how  local- 
ity governs  the  illustrations  we  use.  The  start 
was  not  from  the  stuinp  here,  quite  the  reverse. 
Nature  made  the  land  ready  for  man's  hand, 
and  there  were  no  obstacles  in  the  shape  of 
stumps  and  stones  to  overcome.  Probably  in 
the  East  a  pine-stump  fence  is  not  regarded  as 
either  particularly  attractive  or  odd;  but  to 
me,  when  I  first  saw  one  in  York  State,  it  was 
both.      I  had  never  even  heard   of  the  stumps 


102  NOTES   FKOM    THE    PRAIRIE 

being  utilized  in  that  way.  Seen  for  the  first 
time,  there  is  something  grotesque  in  the 
appearance  of  those  long  arms  forever  reaching 
out  after  something  they  never  find,  like  a 
petrified  octopus.  Those  fences  are  an  evi- 
dence of  Eastern  thrift  —  making  an  enemy 
serve  as  a  friend.  I  think  they  would  frighten 
our  horses  and  cattle,  used  as  they  are  to  the 
almost  invisible  wire  fence.  '  Worm '  fences 
were  the  fashion  at  first.  But  they  soon 
learned  the  necessity  of  economizing  wood. 
The  people  were  extravagant,  too,  in  the  outlay 
of  power  in  tilling  the  soil,  sixteen  yoke  of 
oxen  being  thought  absolutely  necessary  to  run 
a  breaking- plough;  and  I  have  seen  twenty 
yoke  used,  requiring  three  men  to  drive  and 
attend  the  great  clumsy  plough.  Every  sum- 
mer you  might  see  them  in  any  direction,  look- 
ing like  '  thousand  -  legged  worms. '  They 
found  out  after  a  while  that  two  yoke  answered 
quite  as  well.  There  is  something  very  queer 
about  the  bowlders  that  are  supposed  to  have 
been  brought  down  from  northern  regions  dur- 
ing the  glacial  period;  like  Banquo's  ghost, 
they  refuse  to  stay  down.  Other  stones  beside 
them  gradually  become  buried,  but  the  bowlders 
are  always  on  top  of  the  ground.  Is  there 
something  repellent  about  them,  that  the  earth 
refuses  to  cover  them?  They  seem  to  be  of  no 
use,  for  they  cannot  be  worked  as  other  stone; 
they  have  to  be  broken  open  with  heat  in  some 
way,  though  I  did  see  a  building  made  of  them 
once.      The  bowlders  had  been  broken  and  put 


NOTES   FROM    THE   PRAIRIE  103 

in  big  squares  and  little  squares,  oblong  pieces 
and  triangles.  The  effect  was  curious,  if  not 
fine. 

"  In  those  days  there  were  such  quantities  of 
game-birds,    it   was    the    sportsman's   paradise, 
and  during  the  summer  a  great  many  gunners 
from   the   cities   came   there.      Prairie-chickens 
without    number,    as    great   a   nuisance   as   the 
crows  in  the  East,  only  we  could  eat  them  to 
pay  for  the  grain  they  ate;  also  geese,  turkeys, 
ducks,  quail,  and  pigeons.      Did  you  ever  hear 
the     prairie-chickens     during     the     spring?      I 
never  felt  sure  spring  had  come  to  stay  till,  in 
the  early  morning,  there  came  the  boom  of  the 
chickens.  Poor  old  hooff.      It  is  an  indescrib- 
able sound,  as  if  there  were  a  thousand  saying 
the  same  thing  and  keeping  perfect  time.      No 
trouble   then   getting  a   child  up  early   in   the 
morning,    for    it    is   time   for   hunting   prairie- 
chickens'      nests.      In     the     most    unexpected 
places   in   the   wild   grass   the   nests  would   be 
found,  with  about  sixteen  eggs  in  them,  looking 
somewhat  like  a  guinea-hen's  egg.      Of  course 
an   omelet   made   out   of   them   tasted   ever    so 
much   better   than   if   made    out    of    home-laid 
eggs;  now  I  should  not  like  the  taste  so  well, 
probably,  for  there  is  a  wild  flavor  to  the  egg, 
as  there  is  to  the  flesh  of  the  bird.      Many  a 
time  I've  stepped  right  into  the  nest,  so  well 
was  it  hidden.      After  a  prairie  fire  is  a  good 
time   to   go   egging,    the   nests   being   in    plain 
sight,    and   the  eggs  already   roasted.      I    have 
tried  again  and  again  to  raise  the  chickens  by 


104  NOTES   FROM   THE    PRAIRIE 

setting  the  eggs  under  the  tame  hens,  but  it 
cannot  be  done;  they  seem  to  inherit  a  shyness 
that  makes  them  refuse  to  eat,  and  at  the  first 
opportunity  they  slip  off  in  the  grass  and  are 
gone.  Every  kind  of  food,  even  to  live  in- 
sects, they  will  refuse,  and  will  starve  to  death 
rather  than  eat  in  captivity.  There  are  but 
few  chickens  here  now;  they  have  taken  Hor- 
ace Greeley's  advice  and  gone  West.  As  to 
four-footed  game,  there  were  any  number  of 
the  little  prairie-wolves  and  some  big  gray 
ones.  Could  see  the  little  wolves  running 
across  the  prairie  any  time  a  day,  and  at  night 
their  continual  yap^  yap  was  almost  unendur- 
able. They  developed  a  taste  for  barn-yard 
fowl  that  made  it  necessary  for  hens  to  roost 
high.  They  are  cowards  in  the  daytime,  but 
brave  enough  to  come  close  to  the  house  at 
night.  If  people  had  only  had  foxhounds, 
they  would  have  afforded  an  opportunity  for 
some  sport.  I  have  seen  people  try  to  run 
them  down  on  horseback,  but  never  knew  them 
to  succeed. 

"One  of  my  standard  amusements  was  to  go 
every  little  while  to  a  den  the  wolves  had, 
where  the  rocks  cropped  out  of  the  ground,  and 
poke  in  there  with  a  stick,  to  see  a  wolf  pop 
out  scared  almost  to  death.  As  to  the  big 
wolves,  it  was  dangerous  sport  to  meddle  with 
them.  I  had  an  experience  with  them  one 
winter  that  would  have  begotten  a  desire  to 
keep  a  proper  distance  from  them,  had  I  not 
felt  it  before.      An  intensely  cold  night  three 


NOTES   FROM   THE    PRAIRIE  105 

of  US  were  riding  in  an  open  wagon  on  one 
Beat.  The  road  ran  for  about  a  mile  through 
the  woods,  and  as  we  entered  it  four  or  five 
gray  wolves  sprang  out  at  us ;  the  horse  needed 
no  urging,  you  may  be  sure,  but  to  me  it 
seemed  an  age  before  we  got  out  into  the 
moonlight  on  the  prairie;  then  the  wolves 
slunk  back  into  the  woods.  Every  leap  they 
made  it  seemed  as  if  they  would  jump  into  the 
wagon.  I  could  hear  them  strike  against  the 
back  of  it  and  hear  their  teeth  click  together  as 
they  barely  missed  my  hand  where  I  held  on  to 
the  seat  to  keep  from  being  thrown  out.  My 
most  prominent  desire  about  that  time  was  to 
sit  in  the  middle  and  let  some  one  else  have  the 

outside  seat. 

"Grandfather    was    very   fond    of    trapping, 
and  used  to  catch  a  great  many  wolves  for  their 
skins   and  the  bounty;  also  minks  and   musk- 
rats.      I  always  had  to  help  skin  them,  which 
I   considered  dreadful,   especially  skinning  the 
muskrats;  but  as  that  was  the  only  condition 
under   which    I   was   allowed   to   go   along,    of 
course  I  submitted,   for   I  wouldn't   miss   the 
excitement  of  seeing  whether  we  had  succeeded 
in  outwitting  and  catching  the  sly  creatures  for 
any  consideration.      The  beautiful  minks,  with 
their  slender  satiny  bodies,  it  seemed  a  pity  to 
catch  them.      Muskrats  I  had  no  sympathy  for, 
they  looked  so  ratty,  and  had  so  unpleasant  a 
smell       The  gophers  were  one  of  the  greatest 
plagues  the  farmers  had.      The   ground  would 
be    dotted   with    their   mounds,    so   round   and 


106  NOTES   FROM   THE    PRAIKIE 

regular,  the  black  dirt  pulverized  so  finely.  I 
always  wondered  how  they  could  make  them  of 
such  a  perfect  shape,  and  wished  I  could  see 
way  down  into  their  houses.  They  have  more 
than  one  entrance  to  them,  because  I  've  tried 
to  drown  them  out,  and  soon  I  would  see  what 
I  took  to  be  my  gopher,  that  I  thought  I  had 
covered  so  nicely,  skipping  off.  They  took  so 
much  corn  out  of  the  hills  after  it  was  planted 
that  it  was  customary  to  mix  corn  soaked  with 
strychnine  with  the  seed  corn.  Do  they  have 
pocket  gophers  in  the  East  ?  [No.  ]  They  are 
the  cutest  little  animals,  with  their  pockets  on 
each  side  of  their  necks,  lined  with  fur;  when 
they  get  them  stuffed  full  they  look  as  broad  as 
they  are  long,  and  so  saucy.  I  have  met  them 
and  had  them  show  fight,  because  I  wouldn't 
turn  out  of  their  path  —  the  little  impudent 
things ! 

"One  nuisance  that  goes  along  with  civiliza- 
tion we  escaped  until  the  railroad  was  built, 
and  that  was  rats.  The  railroads  brought 
other  nuisances  too,  the  weeds;  they  soon 
crowded  out  the  native  plants.  I  don't  want 
to  be  understood  as  calling  all  weeds  nuisances; 
the  beautiful  flowers  some  of  them  bear  save 
their  reputations  —  the  dandelion,  for  instance ; 
I  approve  of  the  dandelion,  whatever  others 
may  think.  I  shall  never  forget  the  first  one  I 
found  in  the  West;  it  was  like  meeting  an  old 
friend.  It  grew  alongside  of  an  emigrant  road, 
about  five  miles  from  my  home;  here  I  spied 
the  golden  treasure  in  the  grass.      Some  of  the 


NOTES   FROM    THE    PRAIRIE  107 

many  '  prairie  schooners  '  that  had  passed  that 
way  had  probably  dropped  the  one  seed. 
Mother  dug  it  up  and  planted  it  in  our  flower- 
bed, and  in  two  years  the  neighborhood  was 
yellow  with  them  —  all  from  that  one  root. 
The  prairies  are  gone  now,  and  the  wild- 
flowers,  those  that  have  not  been  civilized  to 
death  like  the  Indians,  have  taken  refuge  in 
the  fence-corners." 

I  had  asked  her  what  she  knew  about  cranes, 
and  she  replied  as  follows :  — 

"During  the  first  few  years  after  we   came 

West,    cranes,    especially  the  sand-hill  variety, 

were  very  plentiful.      Any  day  in  the  summer 

you  might  see  a  triangle  of  them  flying  over, 

with  their  long  legs  dragging  behind  them ;  or 

if  you  had  sharp  eyes,  could  see  them  stalking 

along    the    sloughs    sometimes    found     on    the 

prairie.      In  the  books  I  see  them  described  as 

being  brown  in  color.      Now  I  should  not  call 

them  brown,   for   they  are   more  of  a  yellow. 

They  are  just  the  color  of  a  gosling,  should  it 

get  its  down  somewhat  soiled,    and   they  look 

much  like  overgrown  goslings  set  up  on  stilts. 

I  have  often  found  their  nests,  and  always  in 

the  shallow  water  in  the  slough,   built  out  of 

sticks,  much  as  the  children  build  cob-houses, 

about  a  foot  high,  with  two  large  flat  eggs  in 

them.      I   have   often   tried   to   catch  them  on 

their  nests,  so  as  to  see  how  they  disposed  of 

their    long    legs,    but    never    quite    succeeded. 

They  are  very  shy,  and  their  nests  are  always 

60  situated  as  to  enable  them  to  see  in  every 


108  NOTES   FROM   THE    PRAIRIE 

direction.  I  had  a  great  desire  to  possess  a  pet 
crane,  but  every  attempt  to  raise  one  resulted 
in  failure,  all  on  account  of  those  same  slender 
legs. 

"The  egg  I  placed  under  a  'sitting  hen' 
(one  was  as  much  as  a  hen  could  conveniently 
manage);  it  would  hatch  out  all  right,  and  I 
had  no  difficulty  in  feeding  the  young  crane, 
for  it  would  eat  anything,  and  showed  no  shy- 
ness—  quite  different  from  a  young  prairie- 
chicken;  in  fact,  their  tameness  was  the  cause 
of  their  death,  for,  like  Mary's  little  lamb, 
they  insisted  on  going  everywhere  I  went. 
When  they  followed  me  into  the  house,  and 
stepped  upon  the  smooth  floor,  one  leg  would 
go  in  one  direction  and  the  other  in  the  oppo- 
site, breaking  one  or  both  of  them.  They 
seemed  to  be  unable  to  walk  upon  any  smooth 
surface.  Such  ridiculous  looking  things  they 
were !  I  have  seen  a  few  pure  white  ones,  but 
only  on  the  wing.  They  seem  more  shy  than 
the  yellow  ones. 

"Once  I  saw  a  curious  sight;  I  saw  seven  or 
eight  cranes  dance  a  cotillon,  or  something 
very  much  like  it.  I  have  since  read  of  wild 
fowl  performing  in  that  way,  but  then  I  had 
never  heard  of  it.  They  were  in  a  meadow 
about  half  a  mile  from  the  house;  I  did  not  at 
all  understand  what  they  were  doing,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  investigate.  After  walking  as  near 
as  I  could  without  frightening  them,-  I  crept 
through  the  tall  grass  until  I  was  within  a  rod 
of  the  cranes,  and  then  lay  and  watched  them. 


NOTES   FROM   THE    PRAIRIE  1U9 

It  was  the  most  comical  sight  to  see  them  waltz 
around,  sidle  up  to  each  other  and  back  again, 
their  long  necks  and  legs  making  the  most 
clumsy  motions.  With  a  little  stretch  of  the 
imagination  one  might  see  a  smirk  on  their 
faces,  and  suspect  them  of  caricaturing  human 
beings.  There  seemed  to  be  a  regular  method 
in  their  movements,  for  the  changes  were  re- 
peated. How  long  they  kept  it  up  I  do  not 
know,  for  I  tired  of  it  and  went  back  to  the 
house,  but  they  had  danced  until  the  grass  was 
trampled  down  hard  and  smooth.  I  always 
had  a  mania  for  trying  experiments,  so  I  coaxed 
my  mother  to  cook  one  the  men  had  shot, 
though  I  had  never  heard  of  any  one's  eating 
crane.  It  was  not  very  good,  tasted  somewhat 
peculiar,  and  the  thought  that  maybe  it  was 
poison  struck  me  with  horror.  I  was  badly 
scared,  for  I  reflected  that  I  had  no  proof  that 
it  was  not  poison,  and  I  had  been  told  so  many 
times  that  I  was  bound  to  come  to  grief,  sooner 
or  later,  from  trying  to  find  out  things. " 

I  am  always  glad  to  have  the  views  of  a  sen- 
sible person,  outside  of  the  literary  circles, 
upon  my  favorite  authors,  especially  when  the 
views  are  spontaneous.  "Speaking  of  Tho- 
reau,"  says  my  correspondent,  "I  am  willing  to 
allow  most  that  is  said  in  his  praise,  but  /  do 
not  like  him,  all  the  same.  Do  you  know  I 
feel  that  he  was  not  altogether  human.  There 
is  something  uncanny  about  him.  I  guess  that 
instead  of  having  a  human  soul,  his  body  M-as 
inhabited  by  some  sylvan  deity  that  flourished 


110  NOTES   FROM   THE    PRAIRIE 

in  Grecian  times ;  he  seemed  out  of  place  among 
human  beings." 

Of  Carlyle,  too,  she  has  an  independent 
opinion.  "It  is  a  mystery  to  me  why  men  so 
universally  admire  Carlyle;  women  do  not,  or 
if  there  is  occasionally  one  who  does,  she  does 
not  like  him.  A  woman's  first  thought  about 
him  would  be,  '  I  pity  his  wife ! '  Do  you 
remember  what  he  said  in  answer  to  Mrs. 
Welsh's  proposal  to  come  and  live  with  them 
and  help  support  them?  He  said  they  could 
only  live  pleasantly  together  on  the  condition 
that  she  looked  up  to  him,  not  he  to  her. 
Here  is  what  he  says :  '  Now,  think,  Liebchen, 
whether  your  mother  will  consent  to  forget  her 
riches  and  our  poverty,  and  uncertain,  more 
probably  scanty,  income,  and  consent  in  the 
spirit  of  Christian  meekness  to  make  me  her 
guardian  and  director,  and  be  a  second  wife  to 
her  daughter's  husband?'  Now,  isn't  that 
insufferable  conceit  for  you?  To  expect  that 
a  woman  old  enough  to  be  his  mother  would 
lay  aside  her  self-respect  and  individuality  to 
accept  him,  a  comparatively  young  and  inexpe- 
rienced man,  as  her  master?  The  cheekiness 
of  it!  Here  you  have  the  key-note  of  his 
character  —  '  great  I  and  little  u. ' 

"I  have  tried  faithfully  to  like  him,  for  it 
seemed  as  if  the  fault  must  be  in  me  because  I 
did  not;  I  have  labored  wearily  through  nearly 
all  his  works,  stumbling  over  his  superlatives 
(why,  he  is  an  adjective  factory;  his  pages 
look   like   the    alphabet    struck   by   a    cyclone. 


NOTES   FROM   THE    PKAIlilE  lH 

You  call  it  picturesqueness ;  I  call  it  grotesque- 
ness).  But  it  was  of  no  use;  it  makes  me 
tired  all  over  to  think  of  it.  All  the  time  I 
said  to  myself,  'Oh,  do  stop  your  scolding; 
you  are  not  so  much  better  than  the  rest  of  us. ' 
One  is  willing  to  be  led  to  a  higher  life,  but 
who  wants  to  be  pushed  and  cuffed  along? 
How  can  people  place  him  and  our  own  Emer- 
son, the  dear  guide  and  friend  of  so  many  of 
us,  on  the  same  level?  It  may  be  that  the 
world  had  need  of  him,  just  as  it  needs  light- 
ning and  rain  and  cold  and  pain,  but  must  we 
like  these  things  ?  "  ^ 

1  My  correspondent  was  Mrs.  Beardslee  of  Manchesteii 
Iowa.    She  died  in  October,  1885. 


EYE-BEAMS 

I.    A    WEASEL    AND    HIS    DEN 

My  most  interesting  note  of  the  season  of  1893 
relates  to  a  weasel.      One  day  in  early  Novem- 
ber my  boy  and  I  were  sitting  on  a  rock  at  the 
edge  of  a  tamarack  swamp  in  the  woods  hoping 
to  get  a  glimpse  of  some  grouse  which  we  knew 
were   in   the   habit   of   feeding  in   the  swamp. 
We   had   not   sat    there    very   long    before   we 
heard  a  slight  rustling  in  the  leaves  below  us 
which   we   at   once   fancied   was   made   by   the 
cautious  tread  of  a  grouse.      (We  had  no  gun.) 
Presently  through  the  thick  brushy  growth,  we 
caught  sight  of  a  small  animal  running  along, 
that   we   at   first   took  for   a   red  squirrel.      A 
moment  more,  and  it  came  into  full  view  but  a 
few  yards  from  us,  and  we  saw  that  it  was  a 
weasel.      A  second  glance  showed  that  it  car- 
ried something  in  its  mouth,  which,  as  it  drew 
near,  we  saw  was  a  mouse,  or  a  mole  of  some 
sort.      The  weasel  ran  nimbly  along,  now  the 
length  of  a  decayed  log,  then  over  stones  and 
branches,  pausing  a  moment  every  tliree  or  four 
yards,  and  passed  within  twenty  feet  of  us,  and 
disappeared  behind  some  rocks  on  the  bank  at 
the  edge  of  the  swamp.      "He  is  carrying  food 


EYE-BEAMS  113 

into    his   den,"   I   said;   "let   us   watch   him." 
In  four  or  five  minutes  he  reappeared,  coming 
back  over  the  course  along  which  he  had  just 
passed,  running  over  and  under  the  same  stones 
and  down  the  same  decayed  log,  and  was  soon 
out    of    sight    in    the    swamp.      We    had     not 
moved,    and  evidently  he  had  not  noticed  us. 
After   about   six   minutes   we   heard   the   same 
rustle   as   at   first,    and   in  a  moment  saw   the 
weasel  coming  back  with  another  mouse  in  his 
mouth.      He    kept   to   his   former   route    as    if 
chained    to   it,    making    the   same    pauses    and 
gestures,    and     repeating     exactly     his    former 
movements.      He   disappeared    on    our    left    as 
before,    and   after   a   few   moments'    delay,    re- 
emerged    and  took   his    course   down   into   the 
swamp    again.      We    waited    about    the    same 
length  of  time  as  before,    when  back  he  came 
with  another  mouse.      He  evidently  had  a  big 
crop   of  mice   down   there   amid   the   bogs   and 
bushes,    and   he  was   gathering   his  harvest   in 
very  industriously.      We  became  curious  to  see 
exactly    where    his    den   was,    and    so    walked 
around  where  he  had  seemed  to  disappear  each 
time,    and    waited.      He    was    as    punctual    as 
usual,  and*  was  back  with  his  game  exactly  on 
time.      It  happened  that  we  had  stopped  within 
two  paces  of  his  hole,  so  that,  as  he  approached 
it,    he   evidently   discovered    us.      He    paused, 
looked  steadily   at   us,    and    then  without  any 
sign   of    fear   entered   his   den.      The   entrance 
was  not  under  the  rocks  as  we  had  expected, 
but  was  in  the  bank  a  few  feet  beyond  them. 


114  EYE-BEAMS 

We  remained  motionless  for  some  time,  but  he 
did  not  reappear.  Our  presence  had  made  him 
suspicious,  and  he  was  going  to  wait  awhile. 
Then  I  removed  some  dry  leaves  and  exposed 
his  doorway,  a  small,  round  hole,  hardly  as 
large  as  the  chipmunk  makes,  going  straight 
down  into  the  ground.  We  had  a  lively  curi- 
osity to  get  a  peep  into  his  larder.  If  he  had 
been  carrying  in  mice  at  this  rate  very  long  his 
cellars  must  be  packed  with  them.  With  a 
sharp  stick  I  began  digging  into  the  red  clayey 
soil,  but  soon  encountered  so  many  roots  from 
near  trees  that  I  gave  it  up,  deciding  to  return 
next  day  with  a  mattock.  So  I  repaired  the 
damages  I  had  done  as  well  as  I  could,  replaced 
the  leaves,  and  we  moved  off. 

The  next  day,  which  was  mild  and  still  as 
usual,  I  came  back  armed,  as  I  thought,  to  un- 
earth the  weasel  and  his  treasures.  I  sat  down 
where  we  had  sat  the  day  before  and  awaited 
developments.  I  was  curious  to  know  if  the 
weasel  was  still  carrying  in  his  harvest.  I  had 
sat  but  a  few  minutes  when  I  heard  again  the 
rustle  in  the  dry  leaves,  and  saw  the  weasel 
coming  home  with  another  mouse.  I  observed 
him  till  he  had  made  three  trips;  about  every 
six  or  seven  minutes,  I  calculated,  he  brought  in 
a  mouse.  Then  I  went  and  stood  near  his 
hole.  This  time  he  had  a  fat  meadow-mouse. 
He  laid  it  down  near  the  entrance,  went  in  and 
turned  around,  and  reached  out  and  drew  the 
mouse  in  after  him.  That  store  of  mice  I  am 
bound  to  see,  I  thought,  and  then  fell  to  with 


EYE-BEAMS  115 

the  heavy  mattock.      I  followed  the  hole  down 
about  two  feet,    when  it  turned  to  the  north. 
I  kept  the  clue  by  thrusting  into  the  passage 
slender   twigs;    these    it    was    easy    to    follow. 
Two  or  three  feet  more  and  the  hole  branched, 
one  part  going  west,    the   other   northeast.      I 
followed     the    west    one    a    few    feet    till    it 
branched.      Then  I  turned  to  the  easterly  tun- 
nel,   and   pursued   it   till   it  branched.      I  fol- 
lowed  one   of  these   ways   till   it    divided.      I 
began  to  be  embarrassed  and  hindered  by  the 
accumulations    of    loose    soil.      Evidently'  this 
weasel  had  foreseen  just  such  an  assault  upon 
his  castle  as  I  was  making,  and  had  planned  it 
accordingly.      He  was   not   to   be   caught  nap- 
ping.     I    found    several    enlargements    in    the 
various  tunnels,  breathing  spaces,  or  spaces  to 
turn   around   in,    or  to  meet  and  chat  with  a 
companion,  but  nothing  that  looked  like  a  ter- 
minus,  a   permanent  living-room.      I  tried  re- 
moving  the  soil  a  couple  of  paces  away  with 
the  mattock,  but  found  it  slow  work.      I  was 
getting    warm     and    tired,    and    my    task    was 
apparently    only    just    begun.      The    farther    I 
dug  the  more  numerous  and   intricate   became 
the  passages.      I  concluded  to  stop,   and  come 
again   the   next  day,    armed   with  a  shovel  in 
addition  to  the  mattock. 

Accordingly,  I  came  back  on  the  morrow, 
and  fell  to  work  vigorously.  I  soon  had  quite 
a  large  excavation;  I  found  the  bank  a  laby- 
rinth of  passages,  with  here  and  there  a  large 
chamber.      One  of  the  latter  I  struck  only  six 


116  EYE-BEAMS 

inches  under  the  surface,    by  making   a   fresh 
breach  a  few  feet  away. 

While  I  was  leaning  upon  my  shovel-handle 
and  recovering  my  breath,  I  heard  some  light- 
footed  creature  tripping  over  the  leaves  above 
me  just  out  of  view,  which  I  fancied  might  be 
a  squirrel.  Presently  I  heard  the  bay  of  a 
hound  and  the  yelp  of  a  cur,  and  then  knew 
that  a  rabbit  had  passed  near  me.  The  dogs 
came  hurrying  after,  with  a  great  rumpus,  and 
then  presently  the  hunters  followed.  The 
dogs  remained  barking  not  many  rods  south  of 
me  on  the  edge  of  the  swamp,  and  I  knew  the 
rabbit  had  run  to  hole.  For  half  an  hour  or 
more  I  heard  the  hunters  at  work  there,  dig- 
ging their  game  out;  then  they  came  along  and 
discovered  me  at  my  work.  (An  old  trapper 
and  woodsman  and  his  son.)  I  told  them  what 
I  was  in  quest  of.  "A  mountain  weasel,"  said 
the  old  man.  "Seven  or  eight  years  ago  I 
used  to  set  dead  falls  for  rabbits  just  over 
there,  and  the  game  was  always  partly  eaten 
up.  It  must  have  been  this  weasel  that  visited 
my  traps."  So  my  game  was  evidently  an  old 
resident  of  the  place.  This  swamp,  maybe, 
had  been  his  hunting  ground  for  many  years, 
and  he  had  added  another  hall  to  his  dwelling 
each  year.  After  further  digging,  I  struck  at 
least  one  of  his  banqueting  halls,  a  cavity  about 
the  size  of  one's  hat,  arched  over  by  a  network 
of  fine  tree-roots.  The  occupant  evidently 
lodged,  or  rested  here  also.  There  was  a 
warm,  dry  nest,  made  of  leaves  and  the  fur  of 


EYE-BEAMS  117 

mice  and  moles.  I  took  out  two  or  three  hand- 
fuls.  In  finding  this  chamber,  I  had  followed 
one  of  the  tunnels  around  till  it  brought  me 
within  a  foot  of  the  original  entrance.  A  few 
inches  to  one  side  of  this  cavity  there  was 
what  I  took  to  be  a  back  alley  where  the  weasel 
threw  his  waste;  there  Avere  large  masses  of 
wet,  decaying  fur  here,  and  fur  pellets  such  as 
are  regurgitated  by  hawks  and  owls.  In  the 
nest  there  was  the  tail  of  a  flying  squirrel, 
showing  that  the  weasel  sometimes  had  a  flying 
squirrel  for  supper  or  dinner. 

I   continued   my   digging  with   renewed   en- 
ergy ;  I  should  yet  find  the  grand  depot  where 
all  these   passages   centred;  but   the   farther   I 
excavated,    the  more  complex  and  bafiiing  the 
problem  became ;  the  ground  was  honeycombed 
with  passages.      What  enemy  has  this  weasel, 
I   said   to   myself,    that  he   should   provide   so 
many  ways  of   escape,    that   he  should  have  a 
back    door    at    every    turn?     To     corner    him 
would  be  impossible ;  to  be  lost  in  his  fortress 
were  like  being  lost  in  Mammoth  Cave.      How 
he   could   bewilder    his    pursuer    by   appearing 
now  at  this  door,  now  at   that;  now  mocking 
him  from  the  attic,  now  defying  him  from  the 
cellar.      So  far,   I  had  discovered  but  one  en- 
trance ;  but  some  of  the  chambers  were  so  near 
the  surface  that  it  looked  as  if  the  planner  had 
calculated  upon  an  emergency  when  he  might 
want  to  reach  daylight  quickly  in  a  new  place. 

Finally    I    paused,    rested    upon    my   shovel 
awhile,  eased  my  aching  back  upon  the  ground, 


118  EYE-BEAMS 

and  then  gave  it  up,  feeling  as  I  never  had 
before  the  force  of  the  old  saying,  that  you 
cannot  catch  a  weasel  asleep.  I  had  made  an 
ugly  hole  in  the  hank,  had  handled  over  two  or 
three  times  a  ton  or  more  of  earth,  and  was 
apparently  no  nearer  the  weasel  and  his  store 
of  mice  than  when  I  began. 

Then  I  regretted  that  I  had  broken  into  his 
castle  at  all;  that  I  had  not  contented  myself 
with  coming  day  after  day  and  counting  his  mice 
as  he  carried  them  in,  and  continued  my  obser- 
vation upon  him  each  succeeding  year.  Now 
the  rent  in  his  fortress  could  not  be  repaired, 
and  he  would  doubtless  move  away,  as  he  most 
certainly  did,  for  his  doors,  which  I  had  closed 
with  soil,  remained  unopened  after  winter  had 
set  in. 

But  little  seems  known  about  the  intimate 
private  lives  of  any  of  our  lesser  wild  creatures. 
It  was  news  to  me  that  any  of  the  weasels 
lived  in  dens  in  this  way,  and  that  they  stored 
up  provision  against  a  day  of  need.  This 
species  was  probably  the  little  ermine,  eight  or 
nine  inches  long,  with  tail  about  five  inches. 
It  was  still  in  its  summer  dress  of  dark  chest- 
nut-brown above  and  whitish  below. 

It  was  a  mystery  where  the  creature  had  put 
the  earth  which  it  must  have  removed  in  dig- 
ging its  den;  not  a  grain  was  to  be  seen  any- 
where, and  yet  a  bushel  or  more  must  have  been 
taken  out.  Externally,  there  was  not  the 
slightest  sign  of  that  curious  habitation  there 
under  the  ground.      The  entrance  M^as  hidden 


EYE-BEAMS  119 

beneath  dry  leaves,  and  was  surrounded  by 
little  passages  and  flourishes  between  the  leaves 
and  the  ground.  If  any  of  my  readers  find  a 
weasel's  den,  I  hope  they  will  be  wiser  than  I 
was,  and  observe  his  goings  and  comings  with- 
out disturbing  his  habitation. 


II.     KEEN    PERCEPTIOXS 

Success  in  observing  nature,  as  in  so  many 
other  things,  depends  upon  alertness  of  mind 
and  quickness  to  take  a  hint.  One's  percep- 
tive faculties  must  be  like  a  trap  lightly  and 
delicately  set;  a  touch  must  suffice  to  spring  it. 
But  how  many  people  have  I  walked  with, 
whose  perceptions  were  rusty  and  unpracticed 
—  nothing  less  than  a  bear  would  spring  their 
trap.  All  the  finer  play  of  nature,  all  the 
small  deer  they  miss.  The  little  dramas  and 
tragedies  that  are  being  enacted  by  the  wild 
creatures  in  the  fields  and  woods  are  more  or 
less  veiled  and  withdrawn;  and  the  actors  all 
stop  when  a  spectator  appears  upon  the  scene. 
One  must  be  able  to  interpret  the  signs,  to  pene- 
trate the  scenes,  to  put  this  and  that  together. 

Then  nature  speaks  a  different  language  from 
our  own ;  the  successful  observer  translates  this 
language  into  human  speech.  He  knows  the 
meaning  of  every  sound,  movement,  gesture, 
and  gives  the  human  equivalent.  Careless  or 
hasty  observers,  on  the  other  hand,  make  the 
mistake  of  reading  their  own  thoughts  or  men- 
tal and  emotional  processes  into  nature;  plans 


120  EYE-BEAMS 

and  purposes  are  attributed  to  the  wild  creatures 
which  are  quite  beyond  them.  Some  people  in 
town  saw  an  English  sparrow  tangled  up  in  a 
horsehair,  and  suspended  from  a  tree,  with 
other  sparrows  fluttering  and  chattering  about 
it  They  concluded  at  once  that  the  sparrows 
had  executed  one  of  their  number,  doubtless 
for  some  crime.  I  have  several  times  seen 
sparrows  suspended  in  this  way  about  their 
nesting  and  roosting  places.  Acciients  happen 
to  birds  as  well  as  to  other  folks.  But  they 
do  not  yet  imitate  us  in  the  matter  of  capital 
punishment. 

One  day  I  saw  a  little  bush  sparrow  flutter- 
ing along  in  the  grass,  disabled  in  some  way, 
and  a  large  number  of  its  mates  flitting  and 
calling  about  it.  I  captured  the  bird,  and  in 
doing  so,  its  struggles  in  my  hand  broke  the 
bond  that  held  it  —  some  kind  of  web  or  silken 
insect  thread  that  tied  together  the  quills  of 
one  wing.  When  I  let  it  fly  away  all  its  mates 
followed  it  as  if  wondering  at  the  miracle  that 
had  been  wrought.  They  no  doubt  experi- 
enced some  sort  of  emotion.  Birds  sympathize 
with  each  other  in  their  distress,  and  will  make 
common  cause  against  an  enemy.  Crows  will 
pursue  and  fight  a  tame  crow.  They  seem  to 
look  upon  him  as  an  alien  and  an  enemy.  He 
is  never  so  shapely  and  bright  and  polished  as 
his  wild  brother.  He  is  more  or  less  demoral- 
ized, and  has  lost  caste.  Probably  a  pack  of 
wolves  would  in  the  same  way  destroy  a  tame 
wolf,  should  such  an  one  appear  in  their  midst 


EYE-BEAMS  121 

The  wild  creatures  are  human  —  with  a  dif- 
ference, a  wide  difference.  They  have  the 
keenest  powers  of  perception;  what  observers 
they  are!  how  quickly  they  take  a  hint!  but 
they  have  little  or  no  powers  of  reflection. 
The  crows  do  not  meet  in  parliaments  and  cau- 
cuses, as  has  been  fancied,  and  try  offenders, 
and  discuss  the  tariff,  or  consider  ways  and 
means.  They  are  gregarious  and  social,  and 
probably  in  the  fall  have  something  like  a  reun- 
ion of  the  tribe.  At  least  their  vast  assem- 
blages upon  the  hills  at  this  season  have  a 
decidedly  festive  appearance. 

The  crow  has  fine  manners.  He  always  has 
the  walk  and  air  of  a  lord  of  the  soil.  One 
morning  I  put  out  some  fresh  meat  upon  the 
snow  near  my  study  window.  Presently  a 
crow  came  and  carried  it  off,  and  alighted  with 
it  upon  the  ground  in  the  vineyard.  While  he 
was  eating  of  it,  another  crow  came,  and, 
alighting  a  few  yards  away,  slowly  walked  up 
to  within  a  few  feet  of  this  fellow  and  stopped. 
I  expected  to  see  a  struggle  over  the  food,  as 
would  have  been  the  case  with  domestic  fowls 
or  animals.  Nothing  of  the  kind.  The  feed- 
ing crow  stopped  eating,  regarded  the  other  for 
a  moment,  made  a  gesture  or  two,  and  flew 
away.  Then  the  second  crow  went  up  to  the 
food,  and  proceeded  to  take  his  share.  Pres- 
ently the  first  crow  came  back,  when  eacli 
seized  a  portion  of  the  food  and  flew  away  with 
it.  Their  mutual  respect  and  good-will  seemed 
perfect.      Whether  it  really  was  so  in  our  hu- 


122  EYE-BEAMS 

man  sense,  or  whether  it  was  simply  an  illus- 
tration of  the  instinct  of  mutual  support  which 
seems  to  prevail  among  gregarious  birds,  I 
know  not.  Birds  that  are  solitary  in  their 
habits,  like  hawks  or  woodpeckers,  behave 
quite  differently  toward  each  other  in  the  pres- 
ence of  their  food. 

The  lives  of  the  wild  creatures  revolve  about 
two    facts    or     emotions,     appetite     and    fear. 
Their  keenness  in  discovering  food  and  in  dis- 
covering   danger    are     alike    remarkable.      But 
man  can   nearly   always   outwit   them,    because 
while    his    perceptions    are    not    as   sharp,    his 
poAver  of   reflection  is  so  much   greater.      His 
cunning  carries  a  great  deal  farther.      The  crow 
will  quickly  discover  anything  that  looks  like 
a  trap  or  snare  set  to  catch  him,  but  it  takes 
him  a  long  time  to  see  through  the  simplest 
contrivance.      As  I  have  above  stated,  I  some- 
times place  meat  on  the  snow  in  front  of  my 
study  window  to  attract  him.     On  one  occasion, 
after    a   couple   of   crows  had   come   to   expect 
something  there  daily,  I  suspended  a  piece  of 
meat  by  a  string  from  a  branch  of  the  tree  just 
over  the  spot  where  I  usually  placed  the  food. 
A  crow  soon  discovered  it,  and  came  into  the 
tree    to    see   what    it    meant.      His    suspicions 
were  aroused.      There  was  some  design  in  that 
suspended  meat  evidently.      It   was  a  trap  to 
catch  him.      He  surveyed  it  from  every  near 
branch.      He  peeked  and  pried,  and  was  bent 
on  penetrating  the  mystery.      He  flew  to  the 
ground,  and  walked  about  and  surveyed  it  fronj 


EYE-BEAMS  123 

all  sides.  Then  he  took  a  long  walk  down  alx)ut 
the  vineyard  as  if  in  hope  of  hitting  upon 
some  clue.  Then  he  came  to  the  tree  again, 
and  tried  first  one  eye,  then  the  other,  upon 
it ;  then  to  the  ground  beneath ;  then  he  went 
away  and  came  back;  then  his  fellow  came 
and  they  both  squinted  and  investigated  and 
then  disappeared.  Chickadees  and  woodpeckers 
would  alight  upon  the  meat  and  peck  it  swing- 
ing in  the  wind,  but  the  crows  Avere  fearful. 
Does  this  show  reflection?  Perhaps  it  does, 
but  I  look  upon  it  rather  as  that  instinct  of 
fear  and  cunning  so  characteristic  of  the  crow. 
Two  days  passed  thus:  every  morning  the 
crows  came  and  surveyed  the  suspended  meat 
from  all  points  in  the  tree,  and  then  went 
away.  The  third  day,  I  placed  a  large  bone 
on  the  snow  beneath  the  suspended  morsel. 
Presently  one  of  the  crows  appeared  in  the 
tree,  and  bent  his  eye  upon  the  tempting  bone. 
"The  mystery  deepens,"  he  seemed  to  say  to 
himself.  But  after  half  an  hour's  investiga- 
tion, and  after  approaching  several  times  within 
a  few  feet  of  the  food  upon  the  ground,  he 
seemed  to  conclude  there  was  no  connection 
between  it  and  the  piece  hanging  by  the  string. 
So  he  finally  walked  up  to  it  and  fell  to  peck- 
ing it,  flipping  his  wings  all  the  time,  as  a  sign 
of  his  watchfulness.  He  also  turned  up  his 
eye,  momentarily,  to  the  piece  in  the  air  above, 
as  if  it  might  be  some  disguised  sword  of 
Damocles,  ready  to  fall  upon  him.  Soon  his 
mate  came  and  alighted  on  a  low  branch  of  the 


124  EYE-BEAMS 

tree.  The  feeding  crow  regarded  him  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  flew  up  to  his  side,  as  if  to  give 
him  a  turn  at  the  meat.  But  he  refused  to  run 
the  risk.  He  evidently  looked  upon  the  whole 
thing  as  a  delusion  and  a  snare,  and  presently 
went  away,  and  his  mate  followed  him.  Then 
I  placed  the  bone  in  one  of  the  main  forks  of 
the  tree,  but  the  crows  kept  at  a  safe  distance 
from  it.  Then  I  put  it  back  to  the  ground, 
but  they  grew  more  and  more  suspicious;  some 
evil  intent  in  it  all,  they  thought.  Finally,  a 
dog  carried  ofi"  the  bone,  and  the  crows  ceased 
to  visit  the  tree. 


III.   A  sparrow's  mistake 

If  one  has  always  built  one's  nest  upon  the 
ground,  and  if  one  comes  of  a  race  of  ground- 
builders,  it  is  a  risky  experiment  to  build  in  a 
tree.  The  conditions  are '  vastly  different. 
One  of  my  near  neighbors,  a  little  song- spar- 
row, learned  this  lesson  the  past  season.  She 
grew  ambitious;  she  departed  from  the  tradi- 
tions of  her  race,  and  placed  her  nest  in  a  tree. 
Such  a  pretty  spot  she  chose,  too  —  the  pen- 
dent cradle  formed  by  the  interlaced  sprays  of 
two  parallel  branches  of  a  Norway  spruce. 
These  branches  shoot  out  almost  horizontally; 
indeed,  the  lower  ones  become  quite  so  in 
spring,  and  the  side  shoots  with  which  they  are 
clothed  droop  down,  forming  the  slopes  of  min- 
iature ridges;  where  the  slopes  of  two  branches 
join,  a  little  valley  is  formed  which  often  looks 


EYE-BEAMS  125 

more  stable  than  it  really  is.  My  sparrow 
selected  one  of  these  little  valleys  about  six 
feet  from  the  ground  and  quite  near  the  walls 
of  the  house.  Here,  she  has  thought,  I  will 
build  my  nest,  and  pass  the  heat  of  June  in  a 
miniature  Norway.  This  tree  is  the  fir-clad 
mountain,  and  this  little  vale  on  its  side  I 
select  for  my  own.  She  carried  up  a  great 
quantity  of  coarse  grass  and  straws  for  the 
foundation,  just  as  she  would  have  done  upon 
the  ground.  On  the  top  of  this  mass  there 
gradually  came  into  shape  the  delicate  structure 
of  her  nest,  compacting  and  refining  till  its 
delicate  carpet  of  hairs  and  threads  was  reached. 
So  sly  as  the  little  bird  was  about  it  too  — 
every  moment  on  her  guard  lest  you  discover 
her  secret!  Five  eggs  were  laid,  and  incuba- 
tion was  far  advanced,  when  the  storms  and 
winds  came.  The  cradle  indeed  did  rock. 
The  boughs  did  not  break,  but  they  swayed 
and  separated  as  you  would  part  your  two 
interlocked  hands.  The  ground  of  the  little 
valley  fairly  gave  way,  the  nest  tilted  over  till 
its  contents  fell  into  the  chasm.  It  was  like 
an  earthquake  that  destroys  a  hamlet. 

No  born  tree-builder  would  have  placed  its 
nest  in  such  a  situation.  Birds  that  build  at 
the  end  of  the  branch,  like  the  oriole,  tie  the 
nest  fast;  others,  like  th3  robin,  build  against 
the  main  trunk ;  still  others  build  securely  in 
the  fork.  The  sparrow,  in  her  ignorance, 
rested  her  house  upon  the  spray  of  two 
branches,    and    when    the    tempest    came    the 


126  EYE-BEAMS 

branches    parted    company    and    the    nest    was 
engulfed. 

Another  sparrow  friend  of  mine  met  with  a 
curious  mishap  the  past  season.  It  was  the 
little  social  sparrow,  or  chippie.  She  built  her 
nest  on  the  arm  of  a  grapevine  in  the  vineyard, 
a  favorite  place  with  chippie.  It  had  a  fine 
canopy  of  leaves,  and  was  firmly  and  securely 
placed.  Just  above  it  hung  a  bimch  of  young 
grapes,  which  in  the  warm  July  days  grew 
very  rapidly.  The  little  bird  had  not  foreseen 
the  calamity  that  threatened  her.  The  grapes 
grew  down  into  her  nest  and  completely  filled 
it,  so  that  when  I  put  my  hand  in,  there  were 
the  eggs  sat  upon  by  the  grapes.  The  bird 
was  crowded  out,  and  had  perforce  abandoned 
her  nest,  ejected  by  a  bunch  of  grapes.  How 
long  she  held  her  ground  I  do  not  know ;  prob- 
ably till  the  fruit  began  to  press  heavily  upon 
her. 

IV.     A    POOR    FOUNDATION  \ 

It  is  a  curious  habit  the  wood-thrush  has 
of  starting  its  nest  with  a  fragment  of  news- 
paper or  other  paper.  Except  in  remote  woods, 
I  think  it  nearly  always  puts  a  piece  of  paper 
in  the  foundation  of  its  nest.  Last  spring  I 
chanced  to  be  sitting  near  a  tree  in  which  a 
wood- thrush  had  concluded  to  build.  She 
came  with  a  piece  of  paper  nearly  as  large  as 
my  hand,  placed  it  upon  the  branch,  stood 
upon  it  a  moment,  and  then  flew  down  to  the 
ground.      A    little    puff   of    wind    caused    the 


EYE-BEAMS  127 

paper  to  leave  the  branch  a  moment  afterward. 
The  thrush  watched  it  eddy  slowly  down  to  the 
ground,  when  she  seized  it  and  carried  it  back. 
She  placed  it  in  position  as  before,  stood  upon 
it  again  for  a  moment,  and  then  flew  away. 
Again  the  paper  left  the  branch,  and  sailed 
away  slowly  to  the  ground.  The  bird  seized  it 
again,  jerking  it  about  rather  spitefully,  I 
thought;  she  turned  it  around  two  or  three 
times,  then  labored  back  to  the  branch  with  it, 
upon  which  she  shifted  it  about  as  if  to  hit 
upon  some  position  in  which  it  would  lie  more 
securely.  This  time  she  sat  down  upon  it  for 
a  moment,  and  then  went  away,  doubtless  with 
the  thought  in  her  head  that  she  would  bring 
something  to  hold  it  down.  The  perverse 
paper  followed  her  in  a  few  seconds.  She 
seized  it  again,  and  hustled  it  about  more  than 
before.  As  she  rose  with  it  toward  the  nest, 
it  in  some  way  impeded  her  flight,  and  she  was 
compelled  to  return  to  the  ground  with  it. 
But  she  kept  her  temper  remarkably  well. 
She  turned  the  paper  over  and  took  it  up  in 
her  beak  several  times  before  she  was  satisfied 
with  her  hold,  and  then  carried  it  back  to  the 
branch,  where,  however,  it  would  not  stay.  I 
saw  her  make  six  trials  of  it  when  I  was  called 
away.  I  think  she  finally  abandoned  the  rest- 
less fragment,  probably  a  scrap  that  held  some 
"  breezy  "  piece  of  writing,  for  later  in  the  sea- 
son I  examined  the  nest  and  found  no  paper 
in  it* 


128  EYE-BEAMS 

V.     A    FRIGHTENED    MINK 

In  walking  through  the  woods  one  day  in 
early  winter,  we  read  upon  the  newly  fallen 
snow  the  record  of  a  mink's  fright  the  night 
before.  The  mink  had  been  traveling  through 
the  woods  post-haste,  not  along  the  water- 
courses where  one  sees  them  by  day,  but  over 
ridges  and  across  valleys.  We  followed  his 
track  some  distance  to  see  what  adventures  he 
had  met  with.  We  tracked  him  through  a 
bushy  swamp,  saw  where  he  had  left  it  to 
explore  a  pile  of  rocks,  then  where  he  had 
taken  to  the  swamj)  again,  then  to  the  more 
open  woods.  Presently  the  track  turned 
sharply  about,  and  doubled  upon  itself  in  long 
hurried  strides.  What  had  caused  the  mink 
to  change  its  mind  so  suddenly  ?  We  explored 
a  few  paces  ahead,  and  came  upon  a  fox  track. 
The  mink  had  seen  the  fox  stalking  stealthily 
through  the  woods,  and  the  sight  had  probably 
brought  his  heart  into  his  mouth.  I  think  he 
climbed  a  tree,  and  waited  till  the  fox  passed. 
His  track  disappeared  amid  a  clump  of  hem- 
locks, and  then  reappeared  again  a  little  be- 
yond them.  It  described  a  big  loop  around, 
and  then  crossed  the  fox  track  only  a  few  yards 
from  the  point  where  its  course  was  inter- 
rupted. Then  it  followed  a  little  watercourse, 
went  under  a  rude  bridge  in  a  wood-road,  then 
mingled  with  squirrel  tracks  in  a  denser  part  of 
the  thicket.  If  the  mink  met  a  muskrat  or 
a  rabbit  in  his  travels,  or  came  upon  a  grouse, 


EYE-BEAMS  129 

or  quail,  or  a  farmer's   hen-roost,  he    had   tlie 
supper  he  was  in  quest  of. 

VI.     A    LEGLESS    CLIMBER 

The  eye  always  sees  what  it  wants  to  see, 
and  the  ear  hears  what  it  wants  to  hear.  If  I 
am  intent  upon  birds'  nests  in  my  walk,  I  find 
birds'  nests  everywhere.  Some  people  see 
four-leaved  clovers  wherever  they  look  in  the 
grass.  A  friend  of  mine  picks  up  Indian  relics 
all  about  the  fields;  he  has  Indian  relics  in  his 
eye.  I  have  seen  him  turn  out  of  the  path  at 
right  angles,  as  a  dog  will  when  he  scents  some- 
thing, and  walk  straight  away  several  rods,  and 
pick  up  an  Indian  pounding-stone.  He  saw  it 
out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye.  I  find  that  with- 
out conscious  effort  I  see  and  hear  birds  with 
like  ease.  Eye  and  ear  are  always  on  the 
alert. 

One  day  in  early  June  I  was  walking  with 
some  friends  along  a  secluded  wood-road. 
Above  the  hum  of  the  conversation  I  caught 
the  distressed  cry  of  a  pair  of  blue- jays.  My 
companions  heard  it  also,  but  did  not  heed  it. 

But  to  my  ear  the  cry  was  peculiar.  It  was 
uttered  in  a  tone  of  anguish  and  alarm.  I 
said,  "Let  us  see  what  is  the  trouble  with 
these  jays."  I  presently  saw  a  nest  twenty- 
five  or  thirty  feet  from  the  ground  in  a  small 
hemlock  which  I  at  once  concluded  belonged 
to  the  jays.  The  birds  M'ere  but  a  few  yards 
away    hopping    about     amid     the     neighboring 


130  EYE-BEAMS 

branches,  uttering  now  and  then  their  despair- 
ing note.      Looking  more  intently  at  the  nest, 
I  became  aware  in  the  dim  light  of  the  tree  of 
something  looped  about  it,  or  else  there  was  a 
dark,    very   crooked  limb  that  partly   held  it. 
Suspecting  the  true  nature  of  the  case,  I  threw 
a  stone  up  through  the  branches,  and  then  an- 
other  and  another,    when  the  dark  loops   and 
folds  upon  one  side  of  the  nest  began  to  disap- 
pear, and  the  head  and  neck  of  a  black  snake 
to  slowly  slide  out  on  a  horizontal  branch  on 
the  other;  in  a  moment  the  snake  had  cleared 
the     nest,    and    stretched    himself     along    the 
branch. 

Another  rock-fragment  jarred  his  perch  when 
he  slid  cautiously  along  toward  the  branch  of  a 
large  pine-tree  which  came  out  and  mingled  its 
spray  with  that  of  the  hemlock.  It  was  soon 
apparent  that  the  snake  was  going  to  take 
refuge  in  the  pine.  As  he  made  the  passage 
from  one  tree  to  the  other  we  sought  to  dis- 
lodge him  by  a  shower  of  sticks  and  stones,  but 
without  success;  he  was  soon  upon  a  large 
branch  of  the  pine,  and,  stretched  out  on  top 
of  the  limb,  thought  himself  quite  hidden. 
And  so  he  was;  but  we  knew  his  hiding-place, 
and  the  stones  and  clubs  we  hurled  soon  made 
him  uneasy.  Presently  a  club  struck  the 
branch  with  such  force  that  he  was  fairly  dis- 
lodged, but  saved  himself  by  quickly  wrapping 
his  tail  about  the  limb.  In  this  position  he 
hung  for  some  moments,  but  the  intervening 
branches   shielded   him    pretty   well   from    out 


EYE-BEAMS  131 

missiles,  and  he  soon  recovered  himself  and 
gained  a  still  higher  branch  that  reached  out 
over  the  road  and  nearly  made  a  bridge  to  the 
trees  on  the  other  side. 

Seeing  the  monster  was  likely  to  escape  us, 
unless  we  assailed  him  at  closer  quarters,  I 
determined  to  climb  the  tree.  A  smaller  tree 
growing  near  helped  me  up  to  the  first  branches, 
where  the  ascent  was  not  very  difficult.  I 
finally  reached  the  branch  upon  which  the 
snake  was  carefully  poised,  and  began  shaking 
it.  But  he  did  not  come  down;  he  wrapped 
his  tail  about  it,  and  defied  me.  My  own  posi- 
tion was  precarious,  and  I  was  obliged  to  move 
with  great  circumspection. 

After  much  manoeuvring  I  succeeded  in  arm- 
ing myself  with  a  dry  branch  eight  or  ten  feet 
long,  where  I  had  the  serpent  at  a  disadvan- 
tage. He  kept  his  hold  well.  I  clubbed  him 
about  from  branch  to  branch  while  my  friends, 
with  cautions  and  directions^  looked  on  from 
beneath.  Neither  man  nor  snake  will  indulge 
in  very  lively  antics  in  a  treetop  thirty  or  forty 
feet  from  the  ground.  But  at  last  I  dislodged 
him,  and  swinging  and  looping  like  a  piece  of 
rubber  hose  he  went  to  the  ground,  where  my 
friends  pounced  upon  him  savagely  and  quickly 
made  an  end  of  him. 

I  worked  my  way  carefully  down  the  tree, 
and  was  about  to  drop  upon  the  ground  from 
the  lower  branches,  when  I  saw  another  bh\ck 
snake  coiled  up  at  the  foot  of  the  tree,  as  if 
lying  in  wait  for   me.      Had  he  started  to  hia 


132  EYE-BEAMS 

mate's  rescue,  and,  seeing  the  battle  over,  was 
he  now  waiting  to  avenge  himself  upon  the 
victor?  But  the  odds  were  against  him;  my 
friends  soon  had  him  stretched  beside  his  com- 
rade. 

The  first  snake  killed  had  swallowed  two 
young  jays  just  beginning  to  feather  out. 

How  the  serpent  discovered  the  nest  would 
be  very  interesting  to  know.  What  led  him  to 
search  in  this  particular  tree  amid  all  these 
hundreds  of  trees  that  surrounded  it?  It  is 
probable  that  the  snake  watches  like  a  cat,  or, 
having  seen  the  parent  birds  about  this  tree, 
explored  it.  Nests  upon  the  ground  and  in 
low  boughs  are  frequently  rifled  by  black 
snakes,  but  I  have  never  before  known  one  to 
climb  to  such  a  height  in  a  forest  tree. 

It  would  also  be  interesting  to  know  if  the 
other  snake  was  in  the  secret  of  this  nest,  and 
was  waiting  near  to  share  in  its  contents.  One 
rarely  has  the  patience  to  let  these  little  dramas 
or  tragedies  be  played  to  the  end;  one  cannot 
look  quietly  on,  and  see  a  snake  devour  any- 
thing. Not  even  when  it  is  snake  eat  snake. 
Only  a  few  days  later  my  little  boy  called  me 
to  the  garden  to  see  a  black  snake  in  the  act  of 
swallowing  a  garter  snake.  The  little  snake 
was  holding  back  with  all  his  might  and  main, 
hooking  his  tail  about  the  blackberry  bushes, 
and  pulling  desperately;  still  his  black  enemy 
was  slowly  engulfing  him,  and  had  accom- 
plished about  eight  or  ten  inches  of  him,  when 
he   suddenly  grew  alarmed  at  some  motion  of 


EYE-BEAMS  133 

ours,  and  ejected  tlie  little  snake  from  him 
with  unexpected  ease  and  quickness,  and  tried 
to  escape.  The  little  snake's  head  was  bleed- 
ing, but  he  did  not  seem  otherwise  to  have 
suffered  from  the  adventure. 

Still  a  few  days  later,  the  man  who  was 
mowing  the  lawn  called  to  me  to  come  and 
witness  a  similar  tragedy,  but  on  a  smaller 
scale  —  a  garter  snake  swallowing  a  little  green 
snake.  Half  the  length  of  the  green  snake  had 
disappeared  from  sight,  and  it  was  quite  dead. 
The  process  had  been  a  slow  one,  as  the  garter 
snake  was  only  two  or  three  inches  longer  than 
his  victim.  There  seems  to  be  a  sort  of  poetic 
justice  in  snake  swallowing  snake,  shark  eating 
shark,  and  one  can  look  on  with  more  compos- 
ure than  when  a  bird  or  frog  is  the  victim.  It 
is  said  that  in  the  deep  sea  there  is  a  fish  that 
will  SAvallow  another  fish  eight  or  ten  times  its' 
own  size.  It  seizes  its  victim  by  the  tail  and 
slowly  sucks  it  in,  stretching  and  expanding 
itself  at  the  same  time,  and  probably  digesting 
the  big  fish  by  inches,  till  after  many  days  it 
is  completely  engulfed.  Would  it  be  hard  to 
find  something  analogous  to  this  in  life,  espe- 
cially in  American  politics? 


A  YOUNG   MARSH   HAWK 

Most  country  boys,  I  fancy,  know  the  marsh 
hawk.  It  is  he  you  see  flying  low  over  the 
fields,  beating  about  bushes  and  marshes  and 
dipping  over  the  fences,  with  his  attention  di- 
rected to  the  ground  beneath  him.  He  is  a 
cat  on  wings.  He  keeps  so  low  that  the  birds 
and  mice  do  not  see  him  till  he  is  fairly  upon 
them.  The  hen-hawk  swoops  down  upon  the 
meadow-mouse  from  his  position  high  in  air,  or 
from  the  top  of  a  dead  tree;  but  the  marsh- 
hawk  stalks  him  and  comes  suddenly  upon  him 
from  over  the  fence,  or  from  behind  a  low  bush 
or  tuft  of  grass.  He  is  nearly  as  large  as  the 
hen-hawk,  but  has  a  much  longer  tail.  When 
I  was  a  boy  I  used  to  call  him  the  long-tailed 
hawk.  The  male  is  a  bluish  slate- color;  the 
female  a  reddish  brown  like  the  hen-hawk,  with 
a  white  rump. 

Unlike  the  other  hawks,  they  nest  on  the 
ground  in  low,  thick  marshy  places.  For 
several  seasons  a  pair  have  nested  in  a  bushy 
marsh  a  few  miles  back  of  me,  near  the  house 
of  a  farmer  friend  of  mine,  who  has  a  keen  eye 
for  the  wild  life  about  him.  Two  years  ago  he 
found  the  nest^  but  when  I  got  over  to  see  it 
the  next  week,  it  had    been  robbed,    probably 


A   YOUNG   MARSH    HAWK  135 

by  some  boys  in  the  neighl)orhood.      The  past 
season,    in    April    or    May,    ]jy    watching    the 
mother  bird,  he  found  the  nest  again.      It  was 
in  a  marshy  place,  several   acres   in   extent,  in 
the  bottom  of  a  valley,  and  thickly  grown  with 
hardback,   prickly  ash,   smilax,   and   other  low 
thorny  bushes.      My  friend  brought  me  to  the 
brink  of  a  low  hill,  and  pointed  out  to  me  in 
the  marsh  below  us,  as  nearly  as  he  could,  just 
where  the  nest  was  located.      Then  we  crossed 
the  pasture,  entered  upon  the  marsh,  and  made 
our  way  cautiously  toward  it.      The  wild  thorny 
growths,  waist  high,  had  to  be  carefully  dealt 
with.      As  we  neared  the  spot  I  used  my  eyes 
the  best  I  could,  but  I  did  not  see  the  hawk 
till  she  sprang  into  the  air  not  ten  yards  away 
from    us.      She    went    screaming  upward,    and 
was    soon    sailing   in    a   circle     far    above    us. 
There,  on  a  coarse  matting  of  twigs  and  weeds, 
lay  five    snow-white    eggs,   a  little    more  than 
half   as   large   as   hen's  eggs.      My   companion 
said    the  male  hawk  would  probably  soon  ap- 
pear and  join  the  female,  but  he  did  not.      She 
kept  drifting  away  to  the  east,  and  was  soon 
gone  from  our  sight. 

We  soon  withdrew  and  secreted  ourselves 
behind  the  stone  wall,  in  hopes  of  seeing  the 
mother  hawk  return.  She  appeared  in  the  dis- 
tance, but  seemed  to  know  she  was  being 
watched,  and  kept  away.  About  ten  days  later 
we  made  another  visit  to  the  nest.  An  adven- 
turous young  Chicago  lady  also  wanted  to  see 
a  hawk's  nest,  and  so  accompanied  us.      This 


136  A   YOUNG   MARSH   HAWK 

time  three  of  the  eggs  were  hatched,  and  as  the 
mother  hawk  sprang  up,  either  by  accident  or 
intentionally,  she  threw  two  of  the  young  hawks 
some  feet  from  the  nest.  She  rose  up  and 
screamed  angrily.  Then,  turning  toward  us, 
she  came  like  an  arrow  straight  at  the  young 
lady,  a  bright  plume  in  whose  hat  probably 
drew  her  fire.  The  damsel  gathered  up  her 
skirts  about  her  and  beat  a  hasty  retreat. 
Hawks  were  not  so  pretty  as  she  thought  they 
were.  A  large  hawk  launched  at  one's  face 
from  high  in  the  air  is  calculated  to  make  one 
a  little  nervous.  It  is  such  a  fearful  incline 
down  which  the  bird  comes,  and  she  is  aiming 
exactly  toward  your  eye.  When  within  about 
thirty  feet  of  you  she  turns  upward  with  a  rush- 
ing sound,  and  mounting  higher  falls  toward 
you  again.  She  is  only  firing  blank  cartridges, 
as  it  were ;  but  it  usually  has  the  desired  effect, 
and  beats  the  enemy  off. 

After  we  had  inspected  the  young  hawks,  a 
neighbor  of  my  friend  offered  to  conduct  us  to 
a  quail's  nest.  Anything  in  the  shape  of  a 
nest  is  always  welcome,  it  is  such  a  mystery, 
such  a  centre  of  interest  and  affection,  and,  if 
upon  the  ground,  is  usually  something  so 
dainty  and  exquisite  amid  the  natural  wreckage 
and  confusion.  A  ground  nest  seems  so  ex- 
posed, too,  that  it  always  gives  a  little  thrill  of 
pleasurable  surprise  to  see  the  group  of  frail 
eggs  resting  there  behind  so  slight  a -barrier. 
I  will  walk  a  long  distance  any  day  just  to  see 
a  song-sparrow's  nest  amid  the  stubble  or  undei 


A   YOUNG   MARSH    HAWK  137 

a  tuft  of  grass.      It  is  a  jewel  in  a  rosette  of 
jewels,  with  a  frill  of  weeds  or  turf.      A  quail's 
nest  I  had  never   seen,    and  to  be  shown  one 
within   the  hunting-ground  of    this  murderous 
hawk  would    be    a    double    pleasure.      Such  a 
quiet,    secluded,    grass-grown    highway    as    we 
moved  along  was  itself  a  rare  treat.      Seques- 
tered was  the  word  that  the  little  valley  sug- 
gested, and  peace  the  feeling  the  road  evoked. 
The    farmer,    whose    fields    lay  about    us,    half 
grown  with  wxeds   and    bushes,    evidently  did 
not  make  stir  or  noise  enough  to  disturb  any- 
thing.      Beside    this  rustic  highway,    bounded 
by  old  mossy  stone  walls,  and  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  the  farmer's  barn,  the  quail  had  made 
her  nest.      It  was  just  under  the  edge  of  a  pros- 
trate thorn- bush. 

"The  nest  is  right  there,"  said  the  farmer, 
pausing  within  ten  feet  of  it,  and  pointing  to 
the  spot  with  his  stick. 

In  a  moment  or  two  we  could  make  out  the 
mottled  brown  plumage  of  the  sitting  bird. 
Then  w^e  approached  her  cautiously  till  we  l^ent 
above  her. 

She  never  moved  a  feather. 
Then  I  put  my  cane  down  in  the  brush  be- 
hind her.      We  wanted  to  see  the  eggs,  yet  did 
not  want  rudely  to  disturb  the  sitting  hen. 
She  would  not  move. 

Then  I  put  down  my  hand  within  a  few 
inches  of  her ;  still  she  kept  her  place.  Should 
we  have  to  lift  her  off  bodily  ? 

Then  the  young  lady   put  down  her  hand, 


138  A   YOUNG   MARSH   HAWK 

probably  the  prettiest  and  the  whitest  hand  the 
quail  had  ever  seen.  At  least  it  startled  her, 
and  off  she  sprang,  uncovering  such  a  crowded 
nest  of  eggs  as  I  had  never  before  beheld. 
Twenty-one  of  them !  a  ring  or  disk  of  white 
like  a  china  tea-saucer.  You  could  not  help  say- 
ing how  pretty,  how  cunning,  like  baby  hen's 
eggs,  as  if  the  bird  was  playing  at  sitting  as 
children  play  at  housekeeping. 

If  I  had  known  how  crowded  her  nest  was, 
I  should  not  have  dared  disturb  her,  for  fear 
she  would  break  some  of  them.  But  not  an  ess 
suffered  harm  by  her  sudden  flight;  and  no 
harm  came  to  the  nest  afterward.  Every  egg 
hatched,  I  was  told,  and  the  little  chicks, 
hardly  bigger  than  bumblebees,  were  led  away 
by  the  mother  into  the  fields. 

In  about  a  week  I  paid  another  visit  to  the 
hawk's  nest.  The  eggs  were  all  hatched,  and 
the  mother  bird  was  hovering  near.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  curious  expression  of  those 
young  hawks  sitting  there  on  the  ground.  The 
expression  was  not  one  of  youth,  but  of  ex- 
treme age.  Such  an  ancient,  infirm  look  as 
they  had  —  the  sharp,  dark,  and  shrunken  look 
about  the  face  and  eyes,  and  their  feeble,  tot- 
tering motions!  They  sat  upon  their  elbows 
and  the  hind  part  of  their  bodies,  and  their 
pale,  withered  legs  and  feet  extended  before 
them  in  the  most  helpless  fashion.  Their 
angular  bodies  were  covered  with  a  pale  yel- 
lowish down,  like  that  of  a  chicken;  their 
heads    had    a  plucked,    seedy  appearance;    and 


A   YOUNG   MARSH    HAWK  139 

their  long,  strong,  naked  wings  hung  down  by 
their  sides  till  they  touched  the  ground:  power 
and  ferocity  in  the  first  rude  draught,  shorn  of 
everything  but  its  sinister  ugliness.  Another 
curious  thing  was  the  gradation  of  the  young  in 
size ;  they  tapered  down  regularly  from  the  first 
to  the  fifth,  as  if  there  had  been,  as  probably 
there  was,  an  interval  of  a  day  or  two  between 
the  hatching  of  each. 

The  two  older  ones  showed  some  signs  of 
fear  on  our  approach,  and  one  of  them  threw 
himself  upon  his  back,  and  put  up  his  impotent 
legs,  and  glared  at  us  with  open  beak.  The 
two  smaller  ones  regarded  us  not  at  all. 

Neither  of  the  parent  birds  appeared  during 
our  stay. 

When  I  visited  the  nest  again,  eight  or  ten 
days  later,  the  birds  were  much  grown,  but  of 
as  marked  a  difference  in  size  as  before,  and 
with  the  same  look  of  extreme  old  a^je  —  old 
age  in  men  of  the  aquiline  type,  nose  and  chin 
coming  together,  and  eyes  large  and  sunken. 
They  now  glared  upon  us  with  a  wild,  savage 
look,  and  opened  their  beaks  threateningly. 

The  next  week,  when  my  friend  visited  the 
nest,  the  larger  of  the  hawks  fought  him  sav- 
agely. But  one  of  the  brood,  probably  the 
last  to  hatch,  had  made  but  little  growth.  It 
appeared  to  be  on  the  point  of  starvation.  The 
mother  hawk  (for  the  male  seemed  to  have  dis- 
appeared) had  doubtless  found  her  family  too 
large  for  her,  and  w'as  deliberately  allowing  one 
of  the  number  to  perish;  or  did  the  larger  and 


140  A   YOUNG   MARSH   HAWK 

stronger  young  devour  all  the  food  before  the 
weaker  member  could  obtain  any?  Probably 
this  was  the  case. 

Arthur  brought  the  feeble  nestling  away,  and 
the  same  day  my  little  boy  got  it  and  brought 
it  home,  wrapped  in  a  woolen  rag.  It  was 
clearly  a  starved  bantling.  It  cried  feebly,  but 
would  not  lift  up  its  head. 

We  first  poured  some  warm  milk  down  its 
throat,  which  soon  revived  it,  so  that  it  would 
swallow  small  bits  of  flesh.  In  a  day  or  two 
we  had  it  eating  ravenously,  and  its  growth  be- 
came noticeable.  Its  voice  had  the  sharp  whis- 
tling character  of  that  of  its  parents,  and  was 
stilled  only  when  the  bird  was  asleep.  We 
made  a  pen  for  it,  about  a  yard  square,  in  one 
end  of  the  study,  covering  the  floor  with  several 
thicknesses  of  newspapers;  and  here,  upon  a 
bit  of  brown  woolen  blanket  for  a  nest,  the 
hawk  waxed  strong  day  by  day.  An  uglier- 
looking  pet,  tested  by  all  the  rules  we  usually 
apply  to  such  things,  w^ould  have  been  hard  to 
find.  There  he  would  sit  upon  his  elbows,  his 
helpless  feet  out  in  front  of  him,  his  great 
featherless  wings  touching  the  floor,  and  shrilly 
cry  for  more  food.  For  a  time  we  gave  him 
water  daily  from  a  stylograph-pen  filler,  but  the 
water  he  evidently  did  not  need  or  relish. 
Fresh  meat,  and  plenty  of  it,  was  his  demand. 
And  we  soon  discovered  that  he  liked  game, 
such  as  mice,  squirrels,  birds,  much  better  than 
butcher's  meat. 

Then  began  a  lively  campaign  on  the  part  of 


A    YOUNG    MAKSII    HAWK  141 

my  little  boy  against  all  the  vermin  and  small 
game  in  the  neighborhood  to  keep  the  hawk 
supplied.  He  trapped  and  he  hunted,  he  en- 
listed his  mates  in  his  service,  he  even  robbed 
the  cats  to  feed  the  hawk.  His  usefulness  as 
a    boy    of    all    work    was    seriously    impaired. 

"Where  is  J ?"      "Gone  after  a  scpiirrel 

for  his  hawk."  And  often  the  day  would  l^e 
half  gone  before  his  hunt  was  successfuh  The 
premises  were  very  soon  cleared  of  mice,  and 
the  vicinity  of  chipmunks  and  squirrels. 
Farther  and  farther  he  was  compelled  to  hunt 
the  surrounding  farms  and  woods  to  keep  up 
with  the  demands  of  the  hawk.  By  the  time 
the  hawk  was  ready  to  fly  he  had  consumed 
twenty-one  chipmunks,  fourteen  red  squirrels, 
sixteen  mice,  and  twelve  English  sparrows,  be- 
sides a  lot  of  butcher's  meat. 

His  plumage  very  soon  began  to  show  itself, 
crowding  off  tufts  of  the  down.  The  quills  on 
his  great  wings  sprouted  and  grew  apace. 

\Vhat  a  ragged,  uncanny  appearance  he  pre- 
sented! but  his  look  of  extreme  age  gradually 
became  modified.  What  a  lover  of  the  sun- 
light he  was!  We  would  put  him  out  upon 
the  grass  in  the  full  blaze  of  the  morning  sun, 
and  he  would  spread  his  wings  and  bask  in  it 
with  the  most  intense  enjoyment.  In  the  nest 
the  young  must  be  exposed  to  the  full  power  of 
the  midday  sun  during  our  first  heated  terms  in 
June  and  July,  the  thermometer  often  going  up 
to  93  or  95  degrees,  so  that  sunshine  seemed  to 
be  a  need  of  his  nature.      He    liked  tlie   rain 


142  A   YOUNG   MARSH   HAWK 

equally  well,  and  when  put  out  in  a  shower 
would  sit  down  and  take  it  as  if  every  drop  did 
him  good. 

His  legs  developed  nearly  as  slowly  as  his 
wings.  He  could  not  stand  steadily  upon  them 
till  about  ten  days  before  he  was  ready  to  fly. 
The  talons  were  limp  and  feeble.  When  we 
came  with  food  he  would  hobble  along  toward 
us  like  the  worst  kind  of  a  cripple,  dropping 
and  moving  his  wings,  and  treading  upon  his 
legs  from  the  foot  back  to  the  elbow,  the  foot 
remaining  closed  and  useless.  Like  a  baby 
learning  to  stand,  he  made  many  trials  before  he 
succeeded.  He  would  rise  up  on  his  trembling 
legs  only  to  fall  back  again. 

One  day,  in  the  summer-house,  I  saw  him 
for  the  first  time  stand  for  a  moment  squarely 
upon  his  legs  with  the  feet  fully  spread  beneath 
them.  He  looked  about  him  as  if  the  world 
suddenly  wore  a  new  aspect. 

His  plumage  now  grew  quite  rapidly.  One 
red  squirrel  per  day,  chopped  fine  with  an  axe, 
was  his  ration.  He  began  to  hold  his  game 
with  his  foot  while  he  tore  it.  The  study  was 
full  of  his  shed  down.  His  dark  brown  mot- 
tled plumage  began  to  grow  beautiful.  The 
wings  drooped  a  little,  but  gradually  he  got  con- 
trol of  them  and  held  them  in  place. 

It  was  now  the  20th  of  July,  and  the  hawk 
was  about  five  weeks  old.  In  a  day  or  two  he 
was  walking  or  jumping  about  the  ground.  He 
chose  a  position  under  the  edge  of  a  Norway 
spruce,  where  he  would  sit  for  hours  dozing,  oi 


A   YOUNG   MAK8H    HAWK  143 

looking  out  upon  tlie  landscape.  When  we 
brought  him  game  he  would  advance  to  meet  us 
witli  wings  slightly  lifted,  and  uttering  a  shrill 
cry.  Toss  him  a  mouse  or  sparrow,  and  he 
would  seize  it  with  one  foot  and  hop  off  to  his 
cover,  where  he  would  bend  above  it,  spread 
his  plumage,  look  this  way  and  that,  uttering 
all  the  time  the  most  exultant  and  satisfied 
chuckle. 

About  this  time  he  began  to  practice  striking 
with  his  talons,  as  an  Indian  boy  might  begin 
practicing  with  his  bow  and  arrow.      He  would 
strike  at  a  dry  leaf  in  the  grass,  or  at  a  fallen 
apple,   or  at  some  imaginary  object.      He  was 
learning  the   use  of  his  weapons.      His  wings 
also  —  he  seemed  to  feel  them  sprouting  from 
his  shoulder.      He  would  lift  them  straight  up 
and  hold  them  expanded,  and  they  would  seem 
to  quiver  with  excitement.      Every  hour  in  the 
day  he  would  do  this.      The  pressure  was  be- 
ginning to  centre  there.      Then  he  would  strike 
playfully  at  a  leaf  or  a  bit  of  wood,  and  keep 
his  wings  lifted. 

The  next  step  was  to  spring  into  the  air  and 
beat  his  wings.  He  seemed  now  to  be  thinking 
entirely  of  his  wings.  They  itched  to  be  put 
to  use. 

A  day  or  two  later  he  would  leap  and  fly 
several  feet.  A  pile  of  brush  ten  or  twelve  feet 
below  the  bank  was  easily  reached.  Here  he 
would  perch  in  true  hawk  fashion,  to  the  be- 
wilderment and  scandal  of  all  the  robins  and 
catbirds  in  the  vicinity.      Here  he  would  dart 


144  A   YOUNG   MARSH    HAWK 

his  eye  in  all  directions,  turning  his  head  over 
and  glancing  it  up  into  the  sky. 

He  was  now  a  lovely  creature,  fully  fledged, 
and  as  tame  as  a  kitten.  But  he  was  not  a  bit 
like  a  kitten  in  one  respect  —  he  could  not  bear 
to  have  you  stroke  or  even  touch  his  plumage. 
He  had  a  horror  of  your  hand,  as  if  it  would 
hopelessly  defile  him.  But  he  would  perch  upon 
it,  and  allow  you  to  carry  him  about. 

If  a  dog  or  cat  appeared,  he  was  ready  to  give 
battle  instantly.  He  rushed  up  to  a  little  dog 
one  day,  and  struck  him  with  his  foot  savagely. 
He  was  afraid  of  strangers,  and  of  any  unusual 
object. 

The  last  week  in  July  he  began  to  fly  quite 
freely,  and  it  was  necessary  to  clip  one  of  his 
wings.  As  the  clipping  embraced  only  the  ends 
of  his  primaries,  he  soon  overcame  the  diffi- 
culty, and  by  carrying  his  broad,  long  tail  more 
on  that  side,  flew  with  considerable  ease.  He 
made  longer  and  longer  excursions  into  the  sur- 
rounding fields  and  vineyards,  and  did  not  al- 
ways return.  On  such  occasions  we  would  go 
find  him  and  fetch  him  back. 

Late  one  rainy  afternoon  he  flew  aAvay  into 
the  vineyard,  and  when,  an  hour  later,  I  went 
after  him,  he  could  not  be  found,  and  we  never 
saw  him  again. 

We  hoped  hunger  would  soon  drive  him 
back,  but  we  have  had  no  clue  to  him  from  that 
day  to  this. 


THE   CHIPMUNK 

The  first  chipmunk  in  March  is  as  sure  a 
token  of  the  spring  as  the  first  bluebird  or  the 
first  robin;  and  it  is  quite  as  welcome.      Some 
genial  influence  has  found  him  out  there  in  his 
burrow,  deep  under  the  ground,  and  waked  him 
up  and  enticed  him  forth  into  the  light  of  day. 
The  red  squirrel  has  been  more  or  less  active  all 
winter;  his  track  has  dotted  the  surface  of  every 
new  fallen  snow  throughout  the  season.      But 
the  chipmunk  retired  from  view  early  in  De- 
cember and  has  passed  the  rigorous  months   in 
his   nest,   beside  his  hoard  of  nuts,    some  feet 
underground,    and  hence,  when  he  emerges  in 
March  and  is  seen  upon  his  little  journeys^^along 
the  fences,  or  perched  upon  a  log  or  rock  near 
his  hole  in  the  woods,  it  is  another  sign  that 
spring  is  at  hand.      His  store  of   nuts  may  or 
may    not  be  all    consumed;  it   is    certain  that 
he  is  no   sluggard,    to   sleep    away    these    first 
bright  warm  days. 

Before  the  first  crocus  is  out  of  the  ground, 
you  may  look  for  the  first  chipmunk.  When 
I  hear  the  little  downy  woodpecker  begin  his 
spring  drumming,  then  I  know  the  chipmunk 
is  due.  He  cannot  sleep  after  that  challenge  of 
the  woodpecker  reaches  his  ear. 


146  THE   CHIPMUNK 

Apparently  the  first  thing  he  does  on  coming 
forth,  as  soon  as  he  is  sure  of  himself,  is  to  go 
courting.  So  far  as  I  have  observed,  the  love- 
making  of  the  chipmunk  occurs  in  March.  A 
single  female  will  attract  all  the  males  in  the 
vicinity.  One  early  March  day  I  was  at  work 
for  several  hours  near  a  stone  fence  where  a 
female  had  apparently  taken  up  her  quarters. 
What  a  train  of  suitors  she  had  that  day !  how 
they  hurried  up  and  down,  often  giving  each 
other  a  spiteful  slap  or  bite  as  they  passed. 
The  young  are  born  in  May,  four  or  five  at  a 
birth. 

The  chipmunk  is  quite  a  solitary  creature;  I 
have  never  known  more  than  one  to  occupy  the 
same  den.  Apparently  no  two  can  agree  to  live 
together.  AMiat  a  clean,  pert,  dapper,  nervous 
little  fellow  he  is !  How  fast  his  heart  beats,  as 
he  stands  up  on  the  wall  by  the  roadside,  and 
with  hands  spread  out  upon  his  breast  regards 
you  intently !  A  movement  of  your  arm,  and 
he  darts  into  the  wall  with  a  saucy  chip-r-r, 
which  has  the  effect  of  slamming  the  door  behind 
him. 

On  some  still  day  in  autumn,  the  nutty  days, 
the  woods  will  often  be  pervaded  by  an  under- 
tone of  sound,  produced  by  their  multitudinous 
clucking,  as  they  sit  near  their  dens.  It  is  one 
of  the  characteristic  sounds  of  fall. 

The  chipmunk  has  many  enemies,  such  as 
cats,  weasels,  black  snakes,  hawks,  and  owls. 
One  season  one  had  his  den  in  the  side  of  the 
bank  near  my  study.      As  I  stood  regarding  hia 


THE    CHIPxMUNK  147 

goings  and  comings,  one  October  morning,  I 
saw  him,  when  a  few  yards  away  from  his  hole, 
turn  and  retreat  with  all  speed.  As  he  darted 
beneath  the  sod,  a  shrike  swooped  down  and 
hovered  a  moment  on  the  wing  just  over  the 
hole  where  he  had  disappeared.  I  doubt  if  the 
shrike  could  have  killed  him,  but  it  certainly 
gave  him  a  good  fright. 

It  was  amusing  to  watch  this  chipmunk  carry 
nuts  and  other  food  into  his  den.  He  had 
made  a  well-defined  path  from  his  door  out 
through  the  weeds  and  dry  leaves,  into  the  ter- 
ritory where  his  feeding  ground  lay.  The 
path  was  a  crooked  one ;  it  dipped  under  weeds, 
under  some  large  loosely  piled  stones,  under  a 
pile  of  chestnut  posts,  and  then  followed  the 
remains  of  an  old  wall.  Going  and  coming, 
his  motions  were  like  clockwork.  He  always 
went  by  spurts  and  sudden  sallies.  He  was 
never  for  one  moment  off  his  guard.  He 
would  appear  at  the  mouth  of  his  den,  look 
quickly  about,  take  a  few  leaps  to  a  tussock  of 
grass,  pause  a  breath  with  one  foot  raised,  slip 
quickly  a  few  yards  over  some  dry  leaves,  pause 
again  by  a  stump  beside  a  path,  rush  across  the 
path  to  the  pile  of  loose  stones,  go  under  the 
first  and  over  the  second,  gain  the  pile  of  posts, 
make  his  way  through  that,  survey  his  course  a 
half  moment  from  the  other  side  of  it,  and  then 
dart  on  to  some  other  cover,  and  presently  be- 
yond my  range,  where  I  think  he  gathered 
acorns,  as  there  were  no  other  nut-bearing  trees 
than    oaks    near.      In    four    or  five   minutes  I 


148  THE   CHIPMUNK 

would  see  him  coming  back,  always  keeping 
rigidly  to  the  course  he  took  going  out,  pausing 
at  the  same  spots,  darting  over  or  under  the 
same  objects,  clearing  at  a  bound  the  same  pile 
of  leaves.  There  was  no  variation  in  his  man- 
ner of  proceeding  all  the  time  I  observed  him. 

He  was  alert,  cautious,  and  exceedingly 
methodical.  He  had  found  safety  in  a  certain 
course,  and  he  did  not  at  any  time  deviate  a 
hair's  breadth  from  it.  Something  seemed  to 
say  to  him  all  the  time,  "Beware,  beware!" 
The  nervous,  impetuous  ways  of  these  creatures 
are  no  doubt  the  result  of  the  life  of  fear  which 
they  lead. 

My  chipmunk  had  no  companion.  He  lived 
all  by  himself  in  true  hermit  fashion,  as  is  usu- 
ally the  case  with  this  squirrel.  Provident 
creature  that  he  is,  one  would  think  that  he 
would  long  ago  have  discovered  that  heat,  and 
therefore  food,  is  economized  by  two  or  three 
nesting  together. 

One  day  in  early  spring  a  chipmunk  that  lived 
near  me  met  with  a  terrible  adventure,  the  mem- 
ory of  which  Avill  probably  be  handed  down 
through  many  generations  of  its  family.  I  was 
sitting  in  the  summer-house  with  oSTig  the  cat 
upon  my  knee,  when  the  chipmunk  came  out  of 
its  den  a  few  feet  away,  and  ran  quickly  to  a  pile 
of  chestnut  posts  about  twenty  yards  from  where 
I  sat.  Nig  saw  it  and  was  off  my  lap  upon 
the  floor  in  an  instant.  I  spoke  sharply  to  the 
cat,  when  she  sat  down  and  folded  her  paws 
under    her,    and    regarded    the    squirrel,    as    I 


THE    CHIPMUNK  149 

thought,  with  only  a  dreamy  kind  of  interest. 
I  fancied  she  thought  it  a  hopeless  case  there 
amid  that  pile  of  posts.  "That  is  not  your 
game,  Nig,"  I  said,  "so  spare  yourself  any 
anxiety. "  Just  then  I  was  called  to  the  house, 
where  I  was  detained  about  five  minutes.  As 
I  returned  I  met  Nig  coming  to  the  house  with 
the  chipmunk  in  her  mouth.  She  had  the  air 
of  one  who  had  won  a  wager.  She  carried  the 
chipmunk  by  the  tliroat,  and  its  body  hung 
limp  from  her  mouth.  I  quickly  took  the 
squirrel  from  her  and  reproved  her  sharply.  It 
lay  in  my  hand  as  if  dead,  though  I  saw  no 
marks  of  the  cat's  teeth  upon  it.  Presently  it 
gasped  for  its  breath,  then  again  and  again.  I 
saw  that  the  cat  had  simply  choked  it.  Quickly 
the  film  passed  off  its  eyes,  its  heart  began 
visibly  to  beat,  and  slowly  the  breathing  became 
regular.  I  carried  it  back  and  laid  it  down  in 
the  door  of  its  den.  In  a  moment  it  crawled  or 
kicked  itself  in.  In  the  afternoon  I  placed  a 
handful  of  corn  there,  to  express  my  sympathy, 
and  as  far  as  possible  make  amends  for  Nig's 
cruel  treatment. 

Not  till  four  or  five  days  had  passed  did  my 
little  neighbor  emerge  again  from  its  den  and 
then  only  for  a  moment.  That  terrible  black 
monster  with  the  large  green-yellow  eyes  —  it 
might  be  still  lurking  near.  How  the  black 
monster  had  captured  the  alert  and  restless 
squirrel  so  quickly,  under  the  circumstances, 
was  a  great  mystery  to  me.  Was  not  its  eye 
as  sharp  as  the  cat's  and  its  movements  as  quick  ? 


150  THE   CHIPMUNK 

Yet  cats  do  have  the  secret  of  catching  squirrels, 
and  birds,  and  mice,  but  I  have  never  yet  had 
the  luck  to  see  it  done. 

It  was  not  very  long  before  the  chipmunk 
was  going  to  and  from  her  den  as  usual,  though 
the  dread  of  the  black  monster  seemed  ever 
before  her,  and  gave  speed  and  extra  alertness 
to  all  her  movements.  In  early  summer  four 
young  chipmunks  emerged  from  the  den,  and 
ran  freely  about.  There  was  nothing  to  disturb 
them,  for  alas,  Nig  herself  was  now  dead. 

One  summer  day  I  watched  a  cat  for  nearly 
a  half  hour  trying  her  arts  upon  a  chipmunk 
that  sat  upon  a  pile  of  stone.  Evidently  her 
game  was  to  stalk  him.  She  had  cleared  half 
the  distance,  or  about  twelve  feet,  that  separated 
the  chipmunk  from  a  dense  Norway  spruce 
when  I  chanced  to  become  a  spectator  of  the 
little  drama.  There  sat  the  cat  crouched  low 
on  the  grass,  her  big,  yellow  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  chipmunk,  and  there  sat  the  chipmunk  at 
the  mouth  of  his  den  motionless  with  his  eye 
fixed  upon  the  cat.  For  a  long  time  neither 
moved.  "Will  the  cat  bind  him  with  her 
fatal  spell  ?  "  I  thought.  Sometimes  her  head 
slowly  lowered  and  her  eyes  seemed  to  dilate, 
and  I  fancied  she  was  about  to  spring.  But 
she  did  not.  The  distance  was  too  great  to  be 
successfully  cleared  in  one  bound.  Then  the 
squirrel  moved  nervously,  but  kept  his  eye 
upon  the  enemy.  Then  the  cat  evidently 
grew  tired  and  relaxed  a  little  and  looked 
behind    her.      Then    she    crouched    again    and 


THE   CHIPMUNK  151 

riveted  her  gaze  upon  the  squirrel.  But  the 
latter  would  not  be  hypnotized;  it  shifted 
Its  position  a  few  times  and  finally  rniicklv 
entered  its  den,  when  the  cat  soon  slunk 
away. 

In  digging  his  hole   it  is  evident   tliat  the 
chipmunk  carries  away  the  loose  soil.      Xever  a 
gram  of  it  is  seen  in  front  of  his  door.      Those 
pockets  of  his  probably  stand  him  in  good  stead 
on  such  occasions.      Only  in  one  instance  have 
I  seen  a  pile  of  earth  before  the  entrance  to  a 
chipmunk  s  den,  and  that  was  where  the  builder 
had  begun  his  house  late  in  November  and  was 
probably  too  much  hurried  to  remove  this  u^dv 
mark  from  before  his  door.      I  used  to  pass  his 
place  every  morning  in  my  walk,  and  my  eve 
always  fell  upon  that  little  pile  of  red,  freshly 
dug  soil.      A  little  later  I  used  frequently  to 
surprise  the  squirrel  furniching  his  house,  carry- 
mg  in  dry  leaves  of  the  maple  and  plane-tree 
He  would  seize  a  large  leaf  and  with  both  hands 
stuff  It  into  his  cheek  pockets,  and  then  carry  it 
into  his  den.      I  saw  him  on  several  different 
days  occupied  in  this  way.      I  trust  he  had  se- 
cured his   winter  stores,    though   I  am  a  little 
doubtful.      He  was  hurriedly  making  himself  a 
new  home,  and  the  cold  of  December  was  upon  us 
while  he  was  yet  at  work.      It  may  be  that  he 
had  moved  the  stores  from  his   old    quarters 
wherever  they  were,  and  again  it  may  be  that 
he  had  been  dispossessed  of  both  his  house  and 
provender  by  some  other  chipmunk. 

When  nuts  or  grain  are  not  to  be  had,  these 


152  THE   CHIPMUNK 

thrifty  little  creatures  will  find  some  substitute 
to  help  them  over  the  winter.  Two  chipmunks 
near  my  study  were  occupied  many  days  in 
carrying  in  cherry  pits  which  they  gathered 
beneath  a  large  cherry-tree  that  stood  ten  or 
twelve  rods  away.  As  Nig  was  no  longer  about 
to  molest  them,  they  grew  very  fearless,  and 
used  to  spin  up  and  down  the  garden  path  to 
and  from  their  source  of  supplies  in  a  way  quite 
unusual  with  these  timid  creatures.  After  they 
had  got  enough  cherry  pits,  they  gathered  the 
seed  of  a  sugar  maple  that  stood  near.  Many 
of  the  keys  remained  upon  the  tree  after  the 
leaves  had  fallen  and  these  the  squirrels  har- 
vested. They  would  run  swiftly  out  upon  the 
ends  of  the  small  branches,  reach  out  for  the 
maple  keys,  snip  off  the  wings  and  deftly  slip 
the  nut  or  samara  into  their  cheek  pockets. 
Day  after  day  in  late  autumn  I  used  to  see 
them  thus  occupied. 

As  I  have  said,  I  have  no  evidence  that  more 
than  one  chipmunk  occupy  the  same  den.  One 
March  morning  after  a  light  fall  of  snow  I  saw 
where  one  had  come  up  out  of  his  hole,  which 
was  in  the  side  of  our  path  to  the  vineyard,  and 
after  a  moment's  survey  of  the  surroundings 
had  started  off  on  his  travels.  I  followed  the 
track  to  see  where  he  had  gone.  He  had 
passed  through  my  woodpile,  then  under  the 
beehives,  then  around  the'  study  and  under 
some  spruces  and  along  the  slope  to  the  hole  of 
a  friend  of  his,  about  sixty  yards  from  his  own. 
Apparently  he  had  gone  in  here,  and  then  his 


THE   CHIPMUNK  153 

friend  had  come  forth  with  him,  for  there  were 
two  tracks  leading  from  this  doorway.  I  fol- 
lowed them  to  a  third  humhle  entrance,  not  far 
off,  wliere  the  tracks  were  so  numerous  that  I 
lost  the  trail.  It  was  pleasing  to  see  the  evi- 
dence of  their  morning  sociability  written  there 
upon  the  new  snow. 

One  of  the  enemies  of  the  chipmunk,  as  I 
discovered  lately,  is  the  weasel.  I  was  sitting 
in  the  woods  one  autumn  day  when  I  heard  a 
small  cry,  and  a  rustling  amid  the  branches  of 
a  tree  a  few  rods  beyond  me.  Looking  thither 
I  saAv  a  chipmunk  fall  through  the  air,  and 
catch  on  a  limb  twenty  or  more  feet  from  the 
ground.  He  appeared  to  have  dropped  from 
near  the  top  of  the  tree. 

He  secured  his  hold  upon  the  small  branch 
that  had  luckily  intercepted  his  fall,  and  sat 
perfectly  still.  In  a  moment  more  I  saw  a 
weasel  —  one  of  the  smaller  red  varieties  — 
come  down  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  and  begin 
exploring  the  branches  on  a  level  with  the 
chipmunk. 

I  saw  in  a  moment  what  had  happened.  The 
weasel  had  driven  the  squirrel  from  his  retreat 
in  the  rocks  and  stones  beneath,  and  had  pressed 
him  so  closely  that  he  had  taken  refuge  in  the 
top  of  a  tree.  But  weasels  can  climb  trees  too, 
and  this  one  had  tracked  the  friglitened  chip- 
munk to  the  topmost  branch,  M'here  lie  had  tried 
to  seize  him.  Then  the  squirrel  liad,  in  liorror, 
let  go  his  hold,  screamed,  and  fallen  through 
the  air,  till  he  struck  the  blanch  as  just  described. 


154  THE   CHIPMUNK 

Now  his  bloodthirsty  enemy  was  looking  for 
him  again,  apparently  relying  entirely  upon  his 
sense  of  smell  to  guide  him  to  the  game. 

How  did  the  weasel  know  the  squirrel  had 
not  fallen  clear  to  the  ground?  He  certainly 
did  know,  for  when  he  reached  the  same  tier  of 
branches,  he  began  exploring  them.  The  chip- 
munk sat  transfixed  with  fear,  frozen  with  ter- 
ror, not  twelve  feet  away,  and  yet  the  weasel 
saw  him  not. 

Bound  and  round,  up  and  down  he  went  on 
the  branches,  exploring  them  over  and  over. 
How  he  hurried,  lest  the  trail  get  cold !  How 
subtle  and  cruel  and  fiendish  he  looked !  His 
snakelike  movements,  his  tenacity,  his  speed! 

He  seemed  baffled;  he  knew  his  game  was 
near,  but  he  could  not  strike  the  spot.  The 
branch,  upon  the  extreme  end  of  which  the 
squirrel  sat,  ran  out  and  up  from  the  tree  seven 
or  eight  feet,  and  then,  turning  a  sharp  elbow, 
swept  down  and  out  at  right  angles  with  its 
first  covirse. 

The  weasel  would  pause  each  time  at  this 
elbow  and  turn  back.  It  seemed  as  if  he  knew 
that  particular  branch  held  his  prey,  and  yet  its 
crookedness  each  time  threw  him  out.  He 
would  not  give  it  up,  but  went  over  his  course 
again  and  again. 

One  can  fancy  the  feelings  of  the  chipmunk, 
sitting  there  in  plain  view  a  few  feet  away, 
watching  its  deadly  enemy  hunting  for  the  clue. 
How  its  little  heart  must  have  fairly  stood  still 
each  time  the  fatal  branch  was  struck.      Prob- 


THE    CHIPMUNK  155 

ably  as  a  last  resort  it  would  again  have  let  go 
its  hold  and  fallen  to  the  ground,  where  it 
might  have  eluded  its  enemy  a  while  longer. 

In  the  course  of  five  or  six  minutes,  the 
weasel  gave  over  the  search,  and  ran  hurriedly 
down  the  tree  to  the  ground. 

The  chipmunk  remained  motionless  for  a  long 
time;  then  he  stirred  a  little  as  if  hope  was  ret 
viving.  Then  he  looked  nervously  about  him ; 
then  he  had  recovered  himself  so  far  as  to 
change  his  position. 

Presently  he  began  to  move  cautiously  along 
the  branch  to  the  bole  of  the  tree ;  then,  after 
a  few  moments'  delay,  he  plucked  up  courage 
to  descend  to  the  ground,  where  I  hope  no 
weasel  has  disturbed  him  since. 


SPEING   JOTTINGS 

For  ten  or  more  years  past  I  have  been  in 
the  habit  of  jotting  down,  among  other  things 
in  my  note-book,  observations  upon  the  seasons 
as  they  passed,  —  the  complexion  of  the  day, 
the  aspects  of  nature,  the  arrival  of  the  birds, 
the  opening  of  the  flowers,  or  any  characteristic 
feature  of  the  passing  moment  or  hour  which 
the  great  open-air  panorama  presented.  Some 
of  these  notes  and  observations  touching  the 
opening  and  the  progress  of  the  spring  season 
follow  herewith. 

I  need  hardly  say  they  are  off-hand  and  in- 
formal; what  they  have  to  recommend  them  to 
the  general  reader  is  mainly  their  fidelity  to 
actual  fact.  The  sun  always  crosses  the  line  on 
time,  but  the  seasons  which  he  makes  are  by  no 
means  so  punctual;  they  loiter  or  they  hasten, 
and  the  spring  tokens  are  three  or  four  weeks 
earlier  or  later  some  seasons  than  others.  The 
ice  often  breaks  up  on  the  river  early  in  March, 
but  I  have  crossed  upon  it  as  late  as  the  10th  of 
April.  My  journal  presents  many  samples  of 
both  early  and  late  springs. 

But  before  I  give  these  extracts  let  me  say 
a  word  or  two  in  favor  of  the  habit  of  keeping 
a  journal  of    one's  thoughts  and  days.      To  a 


Sl'KINt;    .JOTTINGS  1.07 

countryman,  especially  of  a  meditative  turn, 
who  likes  to  preserve  the  flavor  of  the  passing 
moment,  or  to  a  person  of  leisure  anywhere, 
who  wants  to  make  the  most  of  life,  a  journal 
will  be  found  a  great  liel}).  It  is  a  sort  of  de- 
posit account  wherein  one  saves  up  bits  and  frag- 
ments of  his  life  that  would  otherwise  be  lost  to 
him. 

What  seemed  so  insignificant  in  the  passing, 
or  as  it  lay  in  embryo  in  his  mind,  becomes  a 
valuable  part  of  his  experiences  when  it  is  fully 
unfolded  and  recorded  in  black  and  white.  The 
process  of  writing  develops  it;  the  bud  becomes 
the  leaf  or  flower;  the  one  is  disentangled  from 
the  many  and  takes  definite  form  and  hue.  I 
remember  that  Thoreau  says  in  a  letter  to  a 
friend  after  his  return  from  a  climb  to  the  top 
of  Monadnock,  that  it  is  not  till  he  gets  home 
that  he  really  goes  over  the  mountain;  that  is, 
I  suppose,  sees  what  the  climb  meant  to  him 
when  he  comes  to  write  an  account  of  it  to  his 
friend.  Every  one's  experience  is  probably 
much  the  same;  when  we  try  to  tell  what  we 
saw  and  felt,  even  to  our  journals,  we  discover 
more  and  deeper  meanings  in  things  than  we 
had  suspected. 

The  pleasure  and  value  of  every  walk  or 
journey  we  take  may  be  doubled  to  us  by  care- 
fully noting  down  the  impressions  it  makes 
upon  us.  How  nuich  of  the  flavor  of  IMaine 
birch  I  should  have  missed  had  I  not  compelled 
that  vague,  unconscious  being  within  me,  who 
absorbs  so  much,  and  says  so  little,  to  unbosom 


158  SPRING   JOTTINGS 

himself  at  the  point  of  the  pen.  It  was  not  till 
after  I  got  home  that  I  really  went  to  Maine, 
or  to  the  Adirondacks,  or  to  Canada.  Out  of 
the  chaotic  and  nebulous  impressions  which 
these  expeditions  gave  me,  I  evolved  the  real 
experience.  There  is  hardly  anything  that 
does  not  become  much  more  in  the  telling  than 
in  the  thinking,  or  in  the  feeling. 

I  see  the  fishermen  floating  up  and  down  the 
river  above  their  nets,  which  are  suspended  far 
out  of  sight  in  the  water  beneath  them.  They 
do  not  know  what  fish  they  have  got,  if  any, 
till  after  a  Avhile  they  lift  the  nets  up  and  ex- 
amine them.  In  all  of  us  there  is  a  region  of 
sub-consciousness  above  which  our  ostensible 
lives  go  forward,  and  in  which  much  comes  to 
us  or  is  slowly  developed,  of  which  we  are  quite 
ignorant,  until  we  lift  up  our  nets  and  inspect 
them. 

Then  the  charm  and  significance  of  a  day  are 
so  subtle  and  fleeting!  Before  we  know  it,  it 
is  gone  past  all  recovery.  I  find  that  each 
spring,  that  each  summer,  and  fall,  and  winter 
of  my  life  has  a  hue  and  quality  of  its  own, 
given  by  some  prevailing  mood,  a  train  of 
thought,  an  event,  an  experience,  —  a  color  or 
quality  of  which  I  am  quite  unconscious  at  the 
time,  being  too  near  to  it,  and  too  completely 
enveloped  by  it.  But  afterward,  some  mood  or 
circumstance,  an  odor,  or  fragment  of  a  tune 
brings  it  back  as  by  a  flash ;  for  one  brief  sec- 
ond the  adamantine  door  of  the  past  swings 
open  and  gives  me  a  glimpse  of  my  former  life. 


SPRING   JOTTIxNGS  159 

One's  journal  daslied  oif  witliout  any  secondary 
motive  may  often  preserve  and  renew  the  past 
for  him  in  this  way. 

These  leaves  from  my  own  journal  are  not 
very  good  samples  of  tliis  sort  of  thing,  but 
they  preserve  for  me  the  image  of  many  a  day 
which  memory  alone  could  never  have  kept 

March  3,  1879.  The  sun  is  getting  strong, 
but  wmter  still  holds  his  own.  No  hint  of 
spring  in  the  earth  or  air.  No  sparrow  or  spar- 
row  song  yet.  But  on  the  5th  there  was  a  hint 
of  spring.  The  day  warm  and  the  snow  melt- 
ing. The  first  bluebird  note  this  morning. 
How  sweetly  it  dropped  down  from  the  blue 
overhead ! 

March  10.  A  real  spring  day  at  last,  and  a 
rouser!  Thermometer  between  50°  and  60°  in 
the  coolest  spot;  bees  very  lively  about  the 
hive  and  working  on  the  sawdust  in  the  wood 
yard;  how  they  dig  and  wallow  in  the  woody 
meal,  apparently  squeezing  it  as  if  forcing  it  to 
yield  up  something  to  them!  Here  they  get 
their  first  substitute  for  pollen.  The  sawdust 
of  hickory  and  maple  is  preferred.  The  inner 
milky  substance  between  the  bark  and  the  wood, 
called  the  cambium  layer,  is  probably  the  source 
of  their  supplies. 

In  the  growing  tree  it  is  in  this  layer  or  se- 
cretion that  the  vital  processes  are  the  most 
active  and  potent.  It  has  been  found  by  experi- 
ment that  this  tender,  milky  substance  is  capable 
of  exerting  a  very  great  force ;  a  growing  tree 
exerts  a  lifting  and  jiushing  force  of  more  than 


160  SPRING   JOTTINGS 

thirty  pounds  to  the  square  inch,  and  the  force 
is  thought  to  reside  in  the  soft  fragile  cells  that 
make  up  the  cambium  layer.  It  is  like  the 
strength  of  Samson  residing  in  his  hair.  Saw 
one  bee  enter  the  hive  with  pollen  on  his  back, 
which  he  must  have  got  from  some  open  green- 
house; or  had  he  found  the  skunk  cabbage  in 
bloom  ahead  of  me? 

The  bluebirds!  It  seemed  as  if  they  must 
have  been  waiting  somewhere  close  by  for  the 
first  warm  day,  like  actors  behind  the  scenes, 
for  they  were  here  in  numbers  early  in  the 
morning;  they  rushed  upon  the  stage  very 
promptly  w^hen  their  parts  were  called.  No 
robins  yet.  Sap  runs,  but  not  briskly.  It  is 
too  warm  and  still ;  it  wants  a  brisk  day  for  sap, 
with  a  certain  sharpness  in  the  air,  a  certain 
crispness  and  tension. 

March  12.  A  change  to  more  crispness  and 
coolness,  but  a  delicious  spring  morning.  Hun- 
dreds of  snowbirds  with  a  sprinkling  of  song 
and  Canada  sparrows  are  all  about  the  house, 
chirping  and  lisping  and  chattering  in  a  very 
animated  manner.  The  air  is  full  of  bird 
voices;  through  this  maze  of  fine  sounds  comes 
the  strong  note  and  warble  of  the  robin,  and 
the  soft  call  of  the  bluebird.  A  few  days  ago, 
not  a  bird,  not  a  sound;  everything  rigid  and 
severe;  then  in  a  day  the  barriers  of  winter 
give  way,  and  spring  comes  like  an  inundation. 
In  a  twinklmg  all  is  changed. 

Under  date  of  February  27,  1881,  I  find  this 
note:   "Warm;  saw  the  male  bluebird  warbling 


SPKINU    JOTTINGS  IGl 

and  calling  cheerily.  The  male  bluebird  spreads 
his  tail  as  he  flits  about  at  this  season,  in  a  way 
to  make  him  look  very  gay  and  dressy.  It  adds 
to  his  expression  considerably,  and  makes  him 
look  alert  and  beau-like,  and  every  inch  a  male. 
The  grass  is  green  under  the  snow  and  has 
grown  perceptibly.  The  warmth  of  the  air 
seems  to  go  readily  through  a  covering  of  ice 
and  snow.  Note  how  quickly  the  ice  lets  go 
of  the  door-stones,  though  completely  covered, 
when  the  day  becomes  warm." 

The  farmers  say  a  deep  snow  draws  the  frost 
out  of  the  ground.  It  is  certain  that  the  frost 
goes  out  when  the  ground  is  deeply  covered  for 
some  time,  though  it  is  of  course  the  warmth 
rising  up  from  the  depths  of  the  ground  that 
does  it.  A  winter  of  deep  snows  is  apt  to 
prove  fatal  to  the  peach  buds.  The  frost  leaves 
the  ground,  the  soil  often  becomes  so  warm  that 
angle-worms  rise  to  near  the  surface,  the  sap  in 
the  trees  probably  stirs  a  little;  then  there 
comes  a  cold  wave,  the  mercury  goes  down  to 
ten  or  fifteen  below  zero,  and  the  peach  buds  are 
killed.  It  is  not  the  cold  alone  that  does  it;  it 
is  the  warmth  at  one  end  and  the  extreme  cold 
at  the  other.  When  the  snow  is  removed  so 
that  the  frost  can  get  at  the  roots  also,  peach 
buds  will  stand  fourteen  or  fifteen  degrees  be- 
low zero. 

March  7,  1881.  A  perfect  spring  day  at 
last,  —  still,  warm,  and  without  a  cloud. 
Tapped  two  trees;  the  sap  runs,  the  snow  runs, 
everything  runs.      Bluebirds  the  only  birds  yet. 


162  SPRING   JOTTINGS 

Thermometer  42°  in  the  shade.  A  perfect  sap 
day.  A  perfect  sap  day  is  a  crystalline  day; 
the  night  must  have  a  keen  edge  of  frost,  and 
the  day  a  keen  edge  of  air  and  sun,  with  wind 
north  or  northwest.  The  least  film,  the  least 
breath  from  the  south,  the  least  suggestion  of 
growth,  and  the  day  is  marred  as  a  sap  day. 
Maple  sap  is  maple  frost  melted  by  the  sun. 
(9  p.  M.)  A  soft,  large-starred  night ;  the  moon 
in  her  second  quarter;  perfectly  still  and  freez- 
ing ;  Venus  throbbing  low  in  the  west.  A  crys- 
talline night. 

March  21,  1884.  The  top  of  a  high  barom- 
etric wave,  a  day  like  a  crest,  lifted  up,  sightly, 
sparkling.  A  cold  snap  without  storm  issuing 
in  this  clear,  dazzling,  sharp,  northern  day. 
How  light,  as  if  illuminated  by  more  than  the 
sun;  the  sky  is  full  of  light;  light  seems  to  be 
streaming  up  all  around  the  horizon.  The 
leafless  trees  make  no  shadows;  the  woods  are 
flooded  with  light;  everything  shines;  a  day 
large  and  imposing,  breathing  strong  masculine 
breaths  out  of  the  north ;  a  day  without  a  speck 
or  film,  winnowed  through  and  through,  all  the 
windows  and  doors  of  the  sky  open.  Day  of 
crumpled  rivers  and  lakes,  of  crested  waves,  of 
bellying  sails,  high-domed  and  lustrous  day. 
The  only  typical  March  day  of  the  bright  heroic 
sort  we  have  yet  had. 

March  24,  1884.  Damp,  still  morning, 
much  fog  on  the  river.  All  the  branches  and 
twigs  of  the  trees  strung  with  drops  of  water. 
The  grass  and  weeds   beaded   with  fog  drops. 


SPUING    JOTTINGS  1G3 

Two  lines  of  ducks  go  up  tlie  river,  one  a  few 
feet  beneath  the  other.  On  second  ghince  tlie 
under  line  proves  to  be  the  reflection  of  the 
other  in  the  still  water.  As  the  ducks  cross  a 
large  field  of  ice,  the  lower  line  is  suddenly 
blotted  out,  as  if  the  birds  had  dived  beneath 
the  ice.  A  train  of  cars  across  the  river,  —  the 
train  sunk  beneath  a  solid  stratum  of  fog,  its 
plume  of  smoke  and  vapor  unrolling  alx)ve  it 
and  slanting  away  in  the  distance;  a  liquid 
morning;  the  turf  buzzes  as  you  walk  over  it. 

Skunk  cabbage  on  Saturday  the  22d,  proba- 
bly in  bloom  several  days.  This  plant  always 
gets  ahead  of  me.  It  seems  to  come  up  like  a 
mushroom  in  a  single  night.  Water  newts  just 
out,  and  probably  piping  before  the  frogs, 
though  not  certain  about  this. 

March  25.  One  of  the  rare  days  that  go  be- 
fore a  storm;  the  flower  of  a  series  of  days  in- 
creasingly fair.  To-morrow,  probably,  the  flower 
falls,  and  days  of  rain  and  cold  prepare  the  way 
for  another  fair  day  or  days.  The  barometer 
must  be  high  to-day ;  the  birds  fly  high.  I  feed 
my  bees  on  a  rock  and  sit  long  and  watch  them 
covering  the  combs,  and  rejoice  in  the  multitu- 
dinous humming.  The  river  is  a  great  mirror 
dotted  here  and  there  by  small  cakes  of  ice. 
The  first  sloop  comes  lazily  up  on  the  flood  tiile, 
like  the  first  butterfly  of  spring;  the  little 
steamer,  our  river  omnibus,  makes  her  flrst  trip, 
and  wakes  the  echoes  with  her  salutatory  whis- 
tle, her  flags  dancing  in  the  sun. 

April    1.        Welcome     to    April,    my    natal 


164  SPRING   JOTTINGS 

month;  the  month  of  the  swelling  buds,  the 
springing  grass,  the  first  nests,  the  first  plant- 
ings, the  first  flowers,  and,  last  but  not  least, 
the  first  shad!  The  door  of  the  seasons  first 
stands  ajar  this  month,  and  gives  us  a  peep  be- 
yond. The  month  in  which  to  begin  the  world, 
in  which  to  begin  your  house,  in  which  to  begin 
your  courtship,  in  which  to  enter  upon  any  new 
enterprise.  The  bees  usually  get  their  first  pol- 
len this  month  and  their  first  honey.  All  hi- 
bernating creatures  are  out  before  April  is  past. 
The  coon,  the  chipmunk,  the  bear,  the  turtles, 
the  frogs,  the  snakes,  come  forth  beneath  April 
skies. 

April  8.  A  day  of  great  brightness  and 
clearness,  —  a  crystalline  April  day  that  precedes 
snow.  In  this  sharp  crisp  air  the  flakes  are 
forming.  As  in  a  warm  streaming  south  wind 
one  can  almost  smell  the  swelling  buds,  so  a 
wind  from  the  opposite  quarter  at  this  season 
as  often  suggests  the  crystalline  snow.  I  go  up 
in  the  sugar  bush  (this  was  up  among  the  Cats- 
kills)  and  linger  for  an  hour  among  the  old 
trees.  The  air  is  still  and  has  the  property  of 
being  "hollow,"  as  the  farmers  say;  that  is,  it 
is  heavy,  motionless,  and  transmits  sounds  well. 
Every  warble  of  a  bluebird,  or  robin,  or  caw  of 
crow,  or  bark  of  dog,  or  bleat  of  sheep,  or 
cackle  of  geese,  or  call  of  boy  or  man,  within 
the  landscape,  comes  distinctly  to  the  ear.  The 
smoke  from  the  chimney  goes  straight  up. 

I  walk  through  the  bare  fields;  the  shore 
larks  run  or  flit  before  me;  I  hear  their  shuf- 


SPRING   JOTTINGS  165 

fling,  gurgling,  lisping,  half  inarticulate  song. 
Only  of  late  years  have  I  noticed  the  shore  larks 
in  this  section.  Now  they  breed  and  pass  the 
summer  on  these  hills,  and  I  am  told  that  they 
are  gradually  becoming  permanent  residents  in 
other  parts  of  the  State.  They  are  nearly  as 
large  as  the  English  skylark,  with  conspicuous 
black  markings  about  the  head  and  throat;  shy 
birds  squatting  in  the  sear  grass,  and  probably 
taken  by  most  country  people  who  see  them  to 
be  sparrows. 

Their  flight  and  manner  in  song  is  much  like 
that  of  the  skylark.  The  bird  mounts  up  and 
up  on  ecstatic  wing,  till  it  becomes  a  mere  speck 
against  the  sky,  where  it  drifts  to  and  fro,  and 
utters  at  intervals  its  crude  song,  a  mere  fraction 
or  rudiment  of  the  skylark's  song,  a  few  sharp, 
lisping,  unmelodious  notes,  as  if  the  bird  had  a 
bad  cold  and  could  only  now  and  then  make  any 
sound,  —  heard  a  long  distance,  but  insignificant, 
a  mere  germ  of  the  true  lark's  song;  as  it  were 
the  first  rude  attempt  of  nature  in  this  direction. 
After  due  trial  and  waiting,  she  develops  the 
lark's  song  itself.  But  if  the  law  of  evolution 
applies  to  bird-songs  as  well  as  to  other  things, 
the  shore  lark  should  in  time  become  a  fine 
songster.  I  know  of  no  bird-song  that  seems 
so  obviously  struggling  to  free  itself  and  reach  a 
fuller  expression.  As  the  bird  seems  more  and 
more  inclined  to  abide  permanently  amid  culti- 
vated fields,  and  to  forsake  the  wild  and  savage 
north,  let  me  hope  that  its  song  is  also  under- 
going a  favorable  change. 


166  SPRING   JOTTINGS 

How  conspicuous  the  crows  in  the  brown 
fields,  or  against  the  lingering  snowbanks,  or 
in  the  clear  sky.  How  still  the  air !  One  could 
carry  a  lighted  candle  over  the  hills.  The 
light  is  very  strong,  and  the  effect  of  the  wall 
of  white  mountains  rising  up  all  around  from 
the  checkered  landscape,  and  holding  up  the 
blue  dome  of  the  sky,  is  strange  indeed. 

April  14.  A  delicious  day,  warm  as  May. 
This  to  me  is  the  most  bewitching  part  of 
the  whole  year.  One's  relish  is  so  keen,  and 
the  morsels  are  so  few,  and  so  tender.  How  the 
fields  of  winter  rye  stand  out!  They  call  up 
visions  of  England.  A  perfect  day  in  April  far 
excels  a  perfect  day  in  June,  because  it  pro- 
vokes and  stimulates  while  the  latter  sates  and 
cloys.  Such  days  have  all  the  peace  and  gen- 
iality of  summer  without  any  of  its  satiety  or 
enervating  heat. 

April  15.  Not  much  cloud  this  morning, 
but  much  vapor  in  the  air.  A  cool  south  wind 
with  streaks  of  a  pungent  vegetable  odor,  prob- 
ably from  the  -willows.  When  I  make  too 
dead  a  set  at  it  I  miss  it;  but  Avhen  I  let  my 
nose  have  its  own  way,  and  take  in  the  air 
slowly,  I  get  it,  an  odor  as  of  a  myriad  swell- 
ing buds.  The  long-drawn  call  of  the  high- 
hole  comes  up  from  the  fields,  then  the  tender 
rapid  trill  of  the  bush  or  russet  sparrow,  then 
the  piercing  note  of  the  meadow-lark,  a  flying 
shaft  of  sound. 

April  21.  The  enchanting  days  continue 
without  a  break.      One's  senses   are   not   large 


SPRING   JOTTINGS  167 

enough  to  take  them  all  in.  Maple  buds  just 
bursting,  apple-trees  full  of  infantile  leaves. 
How  the  poplars  and  willows  stand  out!  A 
moist,  warm,  brooding  haze  over  all  the  earth. 
All  day  my  little  rustic  sparrow  sings  and  trills 
divinely.  The  most  prominent  bird  music  in 
April  is  from  the  sparrows. 

The  yellow-birds  (goldfinches)  are  just  get- 
ting on  their  yellow  coats.  I  saw  some  yester- 
day that  had  a  smutty,  unwashed  look,  because 
of  the  new  yellow  shining  through  the  old  drab- 
colored  webs  of  the  feathers.  These  birds  do 
not  shed  their  feathers  in  the  spring,  as  careless 
observers  are  apt  to  think  they  do,  but  merely 
shed  the  outer  webs  of  their  feathers  and  quills, 
which  peel  off  like  a  glove  from  the  hand. 

All  the  groves  and  woods  lightly  touched 
with  new  foliage.  Looks  like  May;  violets 
and  dandelions  in  bloom.  Sparrow's  nest  with 
two  eggs.  Maples  hanging  out  their  delicate 
fringe-like  bloom.  First  swallows  may  be 
looked  for  any  day  after  April  20. 

This  period  may  be  called  the  vernal  equi- 
poise, and  corresponds  to  the  October  calm 
called  the  Indian  summer. 

April  2,  1890.  The  second  of  the  April 
days,  clear  as  a  bell.  The  eye  of  the  heavens 
Avide  open  at  last.  A  sparrow  day;  how  they 
sang!  And  the  robins,  too,  before  I  was  up  in 
the  morning.  Now  and  then  I  could  hear  the 
rat- tat- tat  of  the  downy  at  his  drum.  How 
many  times  I  paused  at  my  work  tc  drink  in  the 
beauty  of  the  day. 


168  SPRING  JOTTINGS 

How  I  like  to  walk  out  after  supper  these 
days !  I  stroll  over  the  lawn  and  stand  on  the 
brink  of  the  hill.  The  sun  is  down,  the  robins 
pipe  and  call,  and  as  the  dusk  comes  on  they 
indulge  in  that  loud  chiding  note  or  scream, 
whether  in  anger  or  in  fun  I  never  can  tell. 
Up  the  road  in  the  distance  the  multitudinous 
voice  of  the  little  peepers,  —  a  thicket  or  screen 
of  sound.  An  April  twilight  is  unlike  any 
other. 

April  12.  Lovely,  bright  day.  We  plough 
the  ground  under  the  hill  for  the  new  vine- 
yard. In  opening  the  furrow  for  the  young 
vines  I  guide  the  team  by  walking  in  their 
front.  How  I  soaked  up  the  sunshine  to-day. 
At  night  I  glowed  all  over ;  my  whole  being  had 
had  an  earth  bath;  such  a  feeling  of  freshly 
ploughed  land  in  every  cell  of  my  brain.  The 
furrow  had  struck  in;  the  sunshine  had  photo- 
graphed it  upon  my  soul. 

April  13.  A  warm,  even  hot  April  day. 
The  air  full  of  haze;  the  sunshine  golden. 
In  the  afternoon  J.  and  I  walk  out  over  the 
country  north  of  town.  Everybody  is  out,  all 
the  paths  and  byways  are  full  of  boys  and 
young  fellows.  We  sit  on  a  wall  a  long  time  by 
a  meadow  and  orchard,  and  drink  in  the  scene. 
April  to  perfection,  such  a  sentiment  of  spring 
everywhere.  The  sky  is  partly  overcast,  the 
air  moist,  just  enough  so  to  bring  out  the  odors, 
—  a  sweet  perfume  of  bursting  growing  things. 
One  could  almost  eat  the  turf  like  a  horse.  All 
about  the  robins  sang.      In  the  trees  the  crow- 


SPRING   JOTTINCS  169 

blackbird  cackled  and  jingled.      Athwart  these 
sounds  came  every  half  minute  the  clear,  strong 
note  of  the  meadow-lark.      The  larks  were  very 
numerous    and    were    lovemaking.      Then    the 
highhole  called  and  the  bush   sparrow  trilled 
Arbutus  days  these,  everybody  wants  to  go  to 
the  woods  for  arbutus;  it  fairly  calls  one.     The 
soil  calls  for  the  plough,  too,  the  garden  calls 
tor  the  spade,  the  vineyard  calls  for  the  hoe 
^rom  all  about  the  farm  voices  call.  Come  and 
do  this,  or  do  that.      At  night  how  the  "peep- 
ers     pile  up  the  sound. 

How  I  delight  to  see  the  plough  at  work  such 
mornings;  the  earth  is  ripe  for  it,  fairly  lusts 
tor  It,  and  the  freshly  turned  soil  looks  good 
enough  to  eat.     Plucked  my  first  bloodroot  this 
morning,  —  a   full-blown  flower  with   a  young 
one  folded  up  in  a  leaf  beneath  it,  only  just  the 
bud  emerging  like  the  head  of  a  pappoose  pro- 
truding   from    its    mother's    blanket, —a   very 
pretty  sight.      The  bloodroot  always  comes  up 
with  the  leaf  shielding  the  flower-bud,  as  one 
shields  the  flame  of  the  candle  in  the  open  air 
with  his  hand  half  closed  about  it. 

These  days  the  song  of  the  toad  —  tr-r-r-r-r- 
r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r  ~  is  heard  in  the  land. 
At  nearly  all  hours  I  hear  it,  and  it  is  as  wel- 
come to  me  as  the  song  of  any  bird.  It  is  a 
kind  of  gossamer  of  sound  drifting  in  the  air. 
Mother  toad  is  in  the  pools  and  puddles  now 
depositing  that  long  chain  or  raveling  of  oggs, 
while  her  dapper  little  mate  rides  u]ion  Ter 
back  and  fertilizes  them  as  they  are  laid.      A.s 


170  SPRING   JOTTINGS 

I  look  toward  the  fields  where  the  first  brown 
thrasher  is  singing,  I  see  emerald  patches  of  rye. 
The  unctuous  confident  strain  of  the  bird  seems 
to  make  the  fields  grow  greener  hour  by  hour. 

May  4.  The  perfection  of  early  May 
weather.  How  green  the  grass,  how  happy  the 
birds,  how  placid  the  river,  how  busy  the  bees, 
how  soft  the  air !  —  that  kind  of  weather  when 
there  seems  to  be  dew  in  the  air  all  day,  —  the 
day  a  kind  of  prolonged  morning,  — so  fresh, 
so  wooing,  so  caressing!  The  baby  leaves  on 
the  apple-trees  have  doubled  in  size  since  last 
night. 

March  12,  1891.  Had  positive  prccf  this 
morning  that  at  least  one  song-sparrow  has  come 
back  to  his  haunts  of  a  year  ago.  One  year  ago 
to-day  my  attention  was  attracted,  while  walk- 
ing over  to  the  post-office,  by  an  unfamiliar  bird- 
song.  It  caught  my  ear  while  I  was  a  long  way 
off.  I  followed  it  up  and  found  that  it  pro- 
ceeded from  a  song-sparrow.  Its  chief  feature 
was  one  long,  clear  high  note,  very  strong, 
sweet,  and  plaintive.  It  sprang  out  of  the  trills 
and  quavers  of  the  first  part  of  the  bird-song, 
like  a  long  arc  or  parabola  of  sound.  To  my 
mental  vision  it  rose  far  up  against  the  blue, 
and  turned  sharply  downward  again  and  fin- 
ished in  more  trills  and  quavers.  I  had  never 
before  heard  anything  like  it.  It  was  the  usual 
long,  silvery  note  in  the  sparrow's  song  greatly 
increased ;  indeed,  the  whole  breath  and  force  of 
the  bird  put  in  this  note,  so  that  you  caught 
little  else  than  this  silver  loop  of  sound.      The 


SPRING   JOTTINGS  171 

bird  remained  in  one  locality  —  the  Imshy 
corner  of  a  field  —  the  whole  season.  He  in- 
dulged in  the  ordinary  sparrow  song  also.  I 
had  repeatedly  had  my  eye  upon  him  when  he 
changed  from  one  to  the  other. 

And  now  here  lie  is  again,  just  a  year  after, 
in  the  same  place,  singing  the  same  remarkahle 
song,  capturing  my  ear  with  the  same  exquisite 
lasso  of  sound.  What  Avould  I  not  give  to 
know  just  where  he  passed  the  winter,  and  what 
adventures  by  flood  and  field  befell  him. 

(I  will  add  that  the  bird  continued  in  song 
the  whole  season,  apparently  confining  his  wan- 
derings to  a  few  acres  of  ground.  But  the  fol- 
lowing spring  he  did  not  return,  and  I  have 
never  heard  him  since,  and  if  any  of  his  pro- 
geny inherited  this  peculiar  song  I  have  not 
heard  them.) 


GLIMPSES   OF   WILD   LIFE 


Any  glimpse  of  the  wild  and  savage  in  na- 
ture, especially  after  long  confinement  indoors 
or  in  town,  always  gives  a  little  fillip  to  my 
mind.  Thus,  when  in  my  walk  from  the  city 
the  other  day  I  paused,  after  a  half  hour,  in  a 
thick  clump  of  red  cedars  crowning  a  little  hill 
that  arose  amid  a  marshy  and  bushy  bit  of  land- 
scape, and  found  myself  in  the  banqueting-hall 
of  a  hawk,  something  more  than  my  natural 
history  tastes  stirred  within  me. 

No  hawk  was  there  then,  but  the  marks  of 
his  nightly  presence  were  very  obvious.  The 
branch  of  a  cedar  about  fifteen  feet  from  the 
ground  was  his  perch.  It  was  worn  smooth, 
with  a  feather  or  two  adhering  to  it.  The 
ground  beneath  was  covered  with  large  pellets 
and  wads  of  mouse-hair;  the  leaves  were  white 
with  his  droppings,  while  the  dried  entrails  of 
his  victims  clung  here  and  there  to  the  bushes. 
The  bird  evidently  came  here  nightly  to  devour 
and  digest  its  prey.  This  was  its  den,  its  re- 
treat; all  about  lay  its  feeding-grounds.  It 
revealed  to  me  a  new  trait  in  the  hawk,  —  its 
local  attachments  and  habits;  that  it,  too,  had 


GLIMPSES    OF    WILD    LIFK  173 

a  home,  and  did  not  wander  alxjut  like  a  vaga- 
bond. It  had  its  domain,  which  it  no  doubt 
assiduously  cultivated.  Here  it  came  to  dine 
and  meditate,  and  a  most  attractive  spot  it  had 
chosen,  a  kind  of  pillared  cave  amid  the  cedars. 
It  was  such  a  spot  as  the  pedestrian  would  be 
sure  to  direct  his  steps  to,  and,  having  reached 
it,  would  be  equally  sure  to  tarry  and  eat  his 
own  lunch  there. 

The  winged  creatures  are  probably  quite  as 
local  as  the  four-footed.  Sitting  one  night  on 
a  broad,  gently  rising  hill,  to  see  the  darkness 
close  in  upon  the  landscape,  my  attention  was 
attracted  by  a  marsh  hawk  industriously  work- 
ing the  fields  about  me.  Time  after  time  he 
made  the  circuit,  varying  but  little  in  his 
course  each  time ;  dropping  into  the  grass  here 
and  there,  beating  low  over  the  bogs  and  bushes, 
and  then  disappearing  in  the  distance.  This 
was  his  domain,  his  preserve,  and  doubtless  ho 
had  his  favorite  perch  not  far  off. 

All  our  permanent  residents  among  the  birds, 
both  large  and  small,  are  comparatively  limited 
in  their  ranges.  The  crow  is  nearly  as  local  as 
the  woodchuck.  He  goes  farther  from  home  in 
quest  of  food,  but  his  territory  is  well  defined, 
both  winter  and  summer.  His  place  of  roost- 
ing remains  the  same  year  after  year.  Once, 
while  spending  a  few  days  at  a  mountain  lake 
nearly  surrounded  by  deep  woods,  my  attention 
was  attracted  each  night,  just  at  sundown,  by 
an  osprey  that  always  came  from  the  same  di- 
rection, dipped  into  the  lake  as  he  passed  over 


174  GLIMPSES    OF    WILD    LIFE 

it  for  a  sip  of  its  pure  water,  and  disappeared 
in  the  woods  beyond.  The  routine  of  his  life 
was  probably  as  marked  as  that  of  any  of  ours. 
He  fished  the  waters  of  the  Delaware  all  day, 
probably  never  going  beyond  a  certain  limit, 
and  returned  each  night  at  sundown,  as  punc- 
tual as  a  day-laborer,  to  his  retreat  in  the  for- 
est. The  sip  of  water,  too,  from  the  lake  he 
never  failed  to  take. 

All  the  facts  we  possess  in  regard  to  the  hab- 
its of  the  song-birds  in  this  respect  point  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  same  individuals  return  to 
the  same  localities  year  after  year,  to  nest  and 
to  rear  their  young.  I  am  convinced  that  the 
same  woodpecker  occupies  the  same  cavity  in  a 
tree  winter  after  winter,  and  drums  upon  the 
same  dry  limb  spring  after  spring.  I  like  to 
think  of  all  these  creatures  as  capable  of  local 
attachments,  and  not  insensible  to  the  senti- 
ment of  home. 

But  I  set  out  to  give  some  glimpses  of  the 
wild  life  which  one  gets  about  the  farm.  Not 
of  a  startling  nature  are  they,  certainly,  but 
very  welcome  for  all  that.  The  domestic  ani- 
mals require  their  lick  of  salt  every  week  or  so, 
and  the  farmer,  I  think,  is  equally  glad  to  get 
a  taste  now  and  then  of  the  wild  life  that  has 
so  nearly  disappeared  from  the  older  and  more 
thickly  settled  parts  of  the  country. 

Last  winter  a  couple  of  bears,  an  old  one  and 
a  young  one,  passed  through  our  neighborhood. 
Their  tracks  were  seen  upon  the  snow  in  the 
woods,  and  the  news  created  great  excitement 


GLIMPSES    OF    WILD    LIFE  175 

among  the  Nimrods.  It  was  like  the  commo- 
tion in  the  water  along  shore  after  a  steamer 
had  passed.  The  bears  were  proba])ly  safely 
in  the  Catskills  by  the  time  the  hunters  got 
dogs  and  guns  ready  and  set  forth.  Country 
people  are  as  eager  to  accept  any  rumor  of  a 
strange  and  dangerous  creature  in  the  woods  as 
they  are  to  believe  in  a  ghost  story.  They 
want  it  to  be  true;  it  gives  them  sometliing  to 
think  about  and  talk  about.  It  is  to  tlieir 
minds  like  strong  drink  to  their  palates.  It 
gives  a  new  interest  to  the  woods,  as  the  ghost 
story  gives  a  new  interest  to  the  old  house. 

A  few  years  ago  the  belief  became  current  in 
our  neighborhood  that  a  dangerous  wild  animal 
lurked    in    the   woods    about,    now   here,    now 
there.      It  had  been  seen  in  the  dusk.      Some 
big  dogs  had  encountered  it  in  the  night,  and 
one  of  them  was   nearly  killed.      Then  a  calf 
and  a  sheep  were  reported  killed  and  partly  de- 
voured.     Women  and  children  became  afraid  to 
go  through  the  woods,  and  men  avoided  them 
after  sundown.      One  day  as  I  passed  an  Irish- 
man's shanty  that  stood  in  an  opening  in  the 
woods,    his    wife    came    out   with   a   pail,    and 
begged   leave  to  accompany  me   as   far  as  the 
spring,  which  lay  beside  the  road  some  distance 
into  the  woods.      She  was  afraid  to  go  alone  for 
water  on  account  of  the  "wild  baste."     Then, 
to  cap   the   climax  of  wild   rumors,  a  horse  was 
killed.      One   of    my   neighbors,    an    intelligent 
man  and  a  good  observer,  went  up  to  see  the 
horse.      He  reported  that  a  great  gash  had  been 


176  GLIMPSES   OF   WILD    LIFE 

eaten  in  the  top  of    the  horse's  neck,  that   its 
back  was  bitten  and  scratched,  and  that  he  was 
convinced  it  was  the  work  of  some  wild  animal 
like   a   panther    which    had    landed    upon    the 
horse's  back  and  fairly  devoured  it  alive.      The 
horse  had  run  up  and  down  the  field  trying  to 
escape,    and    finally,    in    its    desperation,    had 
plunged  headlong  off  a  high  stone  wall  by  the 
barn  and  been  killed.      I  was  compelled  to  ac- 
cept his  story,  but  I  pooh-poohed  the  conclu- 
sions.     It  was  impossible  that  we  should  have 
a  panther  in  the  midst  of  us,  or,  if  we  had,  that 
it   would  attack   and  kill   a   horse.      But  how 
eagerly  the  people  believed  it !     It  tasted  good. 
It  tasted  good  to  me  too,  but  I  could  not  believe 
it.     It  soon  turned  out  that  the  horse  was  killed 
by  another  horse,  a  vicious  beast  that  had  fits  of 
murderous  hatred  toward  its  kind.      The  sheep 
and  calf  were  probably   not  killed  at  all,   and 
the  big  dogs  had  had  a  fight  among  themselves. 
So  the  panther  legend  faded  out,  and  our  woods 
became  as  tame  and  humdrum  as  before.      We 
cannot  get  up  anything  exciting  that  will   hold, 
and  have  to  make  the  most  of  such  small  deer 
as  coons,  foxes,  and  woodchucks.      Glimpses  of 
these  and  of  the  birds  are  all  I  have  to  report. 


II 

The  day  on  which  I  have  any  adventure  with 
a  wild  creature,  no  matter  how  trivial,  has  a 
little  different  flavor  from  the  rest;  as  when, 
one  morning  in  early  summer,  I  put  my  head 


GLIMPSES   OF    WILD    LIFE  177 

out  of  the  back  window  and  returned  the  clial- 
lenge  of  a  quail  that  sent  fortli  his  clear  call 
from  a  fence-rail  one  hundred  yards  away.      In- 
stantly he  came  sailing  over  the  field  of  raspber- 
ries straight  toward  me.      When  about  fifteen 
yards  away  he  drojDped  into  the  cover  and  re- 
peated his  challenge.      I  responded,  when  in  an 
instant  he  was  almost  within  reach  of  me.      He 
alighted  under  the  window,   and  looked  quickly 
around  for  his  rival.      How  his  eyes  shone,  how 
his  form  dilated,  how  dapper  and  polished  and 
brisk  he  looked!     He  turned  his  eye  up  to  me 
and  seemed  to  say,  "Is  it  you,  then,  who  are 
mocking  me?"  and  ran  quickly  around  the  cor- 
ner  of  the  house.      Here  he  lingered  some  time 
amid  the  rosebushes,   half   persuaded   that  tlie 
call,  which  I  still  repeated,  came  from  his  rival. 
Ah,  I  thought,  if  with  his  mate  and  young  he 
M^ould  only  make  my  field  his  home !     The°call 
of  the  quail  is  a  country  sound  that  is  becoming 
all  too  infrequent. 

So  fond  am  I  of  seeing  Nature  reassert  her- 
self that  I  even  found  some  compensation  in  the 
loss  of  my  chickens  that  bright  November  niglit 
when  some  wild  creature,   coon  or  fox,    swept 
two  of  them  out  of  the  evergreens,   and   tlieir 
squawking  as  they  were  hurried  across  the  lawn 
called  me  from  my  bed  to  shout  good-by  after 
them.      It  gave  a  new  interest  to  the  hen-roost, 
this  sudden  incursion  of   wild  nature.      I  feel 
bound  to  caution  tlie  boys  a])out  disturbing  the 
wild  rabbits  that  in  summer  breed   in   my  cur- 
rant-patch,   and   in  autumn    seek   refuge   imder 


178  GLIMPSES    OF   WILD   LIFE 

my  study  floor.  The  occasional  glimpses  I  get 
of  them  about  the  lawn  in  the  dusk,  their  cotton 
tails  twinkling  in  the  dimness,  afford  me  a  gen- 
uine pleasure.  I  have  seen  the  time  when  I 
would  go  a  good  way  to  shoot  a  partridge,  but 
I  would  not  have  killed,  if  I  could,  the  one 
that  started  out  of  the  vines  that  cover  my  rus- 
tic porch,  as  I  approached  that  side  of  the 
house  one  autumn  morning.  How  much  of  the 
woods,  and  of  the  untamable  spirit  of  wild 
nature,  she  brought  to  my  very  door!  It  was 
tonic  and  exhilarating  to  see  her  whirl  away 
toward  the  vineyard.  I  also  owe  a  moment's 
pleasure  to  the  gray  squirrel  that,  finding  my 
summer-house  in  the  line  of  his  travels  one 
summer  day,  ran  through  it  and  almost  over  my 
feet  as  I  sat  idling  w^ith  a  book. 

I  am  sure  my  power  of  digestion  was  im- 
proved that  cold  winter  morning  when,  just  as 
we  were  sitting  down  to  breakfast  about  sun- 
rise, a  red  fox  loped  along  in  front  of  the  win- 
dow, looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the 
left,  and  disappeared  amid  the  currant-bushes. 
What  of  the  wild  and  the  cunning  did  he  not 
bring !  His  graceful  form  and  motion  were  in 
my  mind's  eye  all  day.  When  you  have  seen 
a  fox  loping  along  in  that  way  you  have  seen 
the  poetry  there  is  in  the  canine  tribe.  It  is 
to  the  eye  what  a  flowing  measure  is  to  the 
mind,  so  easy,  so  buoyant;  the  furry  creature 
drifting  along  like  a  large  red  thistledown,  or 
like  a  plume  borne  by  the  wind.  It  is  some- 
thing to  remember  with  pleasure,  that  a  muskrat 


GLIMPSES   OF    WILD    LIFE  179 

Bought  my  door  one  December  night  when  u 
cold  wave  was  swooping  down  upon  us.  A\'as 
he  seeking  shelter,  or  had  he  lost  his  reckon- 
ing? The  dogs  cornered  him  in  the  very  door- 
way, and  set  up  a  great  hubbub.  In  the  dark- 
ness, thinking  it  was  a  cat,  I  put  my  hand 
down  to  feel  it.  The  creature  skii)pe(l  to  the 
other  corner  of  the  doorway,  hitting  my  hand 
with  its  cold,  rope-like  tail.  Lighting  a  match, 
I  had  a  glimpse  of  him  sitting  up  on  his 
haunches  like  a  woodchuck,  confronting  his 
enemies.  I  rushed  in  for  the  lantern,  with  the 
hope  of  capturing  him  alive,  but  before  I  re- 
turned the  dogs,  growing  bold,  had  finished 
him. 

I  have  had  but  one  call  from  a  coon,  that  I 
am  aware  of,  and  I  fear  we  did  not  treat  him 
with  due  hospitality.      He  took  up  his  quarters 
for  the  day  in  a  Norway  spruce,  the  branches 
of    which    nearly    brushed    the   house.      I    had 
noticed  that    the  dog  was  very  curious    about 
that  tree  all    the  forenoon.      After  dinner  his 
curiosity  culminated  in  repeated  loud  and  con- 
fident barking.      Then  I  began  an  investigation, 
expecting  to  find  a  strange  cat,  or  at  most  a  red 
squirrel.      But    a    moment's    scrutiny    revealed 
his  coonship.      Then  how  to  capture   him  l>e- 
came  the  problem.      A  long  pole  was  procured, 
and  I  sought  to  dislodge    him   from  his  hold. 
The  skill  with  which    he    maintained    himself 
amid    the    branches    excited     our    admiration. 
But  after  a    time    he    dropped    lightly   to  tlie 
ground,    not  in  the  least   disconcerted,    and  at 


180  GLIMPSES    OF   WILD   LIFE 

once  on  his  guard  against  both  man  and  beast. 
The  dog  was  a  coward,  and  dared  not  face  him. 
When  the  coon's  attention  was  diverted  the 
dog  would  rash  in;  then  one  of  us  would  at- 
tempt to  seize  the  coon's  tail,  but  he  faced  about 
so  quickly,  his  black  eyes  gleaming,  that  the 
hand  was  timid  about  seizing  him.  But  finally 
in  his  skirmishing  with  the  dog  I  caught  him 
by  the  tail,  and  bore  him  safely  to  an  open 
flour  barrel,  and  he  was  our  prisoner.  Much 
amusement  my  little  boy  and  I  anticipated 
with  him.  He  partook  of  food  that  same  day, 
and  on  the  second  day  would  eat  the  chestnuts 
in  our  presence.  Never  did  he  show  the 
slightest  fear  of  us  or  of  anything,  but  he  was 
unwearied  in  his  efforts  to  regain  his  freedom. 
After  a  few  days  we  put  a  strap  upon  his  neck 
and  kept  him  tethered  by  a  chain.  But  in  the 
night,  by  dint  of  some  hocus-pocus,  he  got  the 
chain  unsnapped  and  made  off,  and  is  now,  I 
trust,  a  patriarch  of  his  tribe,  wearing  a  leather 
necktie. 

The  skunk  visits  every  farm  sooner  or  later. 
One  night  I  came  near  shaking  hands  with  one 
on  my  very  door-stone.  I  thought  it  was  the 
cat,  and  put  down  my  hand  to  stroke  it,  when 
the  creature,  probably  appreciating  my  mistake, 
moved  off  up  the  bank,  revealing  to  me  the 
white  stripe  on  its  body  and  the  kind  of  cat  I 
had  saluted.  The  skunk  is  not  easily  ruffled, 
and  seems  to  employ  excellent  judgment  in  the 
use  of  its  terrible  weapon. 

Several  times  I  have  had  calls  from  wood- 


GLLMrSES   OF    WILD    LIFE  181 

chucks.      One  looked  in  at  tlie  open  door  of  my 
study  one  day,  and,  after  sniffing  a  while,  and 
not  hking  the  smell  of  such  clover  as  I  was 
compelled  to  nibble  there,  moved  on  to  })etter 
pastures.      Another    one    invaded    the    kitclien 
door    while    we    were    at    dinner.       The    dorrs 
promptly  challenged  him,  and  there  was  a  lively 
scrimmage  upon  the  door-stone.      I  thought  the 
dogs  were  fighting,    and  ruslied  to  part  them. 
Ihe  incident  broke  in  upon  the  drowsy  summer 
noon  as  did  the  appearance  of  the  muskrat  upon 
the    frigid    December   night.      The   woodchuck 
episode    that  afforded  us  the  most  amusement 
occurred  last  summer.      ^Ve  were  at  work  in  a 
newly-planted    vineyard,    when   the  man  with 
the  cultivator  saw,  a  few  yards  in  front  of  him 
some  large  gray  object  that  at  first  puzzled  him' 
He  approached  it,    and  found  it  to  be  an  old 
woodchuck   with   a  young   one   in    its   mouth, 
bhe  was  carrying  her  kitten  as  does  a  cat    by 
the  nape  of  the  neck.      Evidently  she  was  mov- 
ing  her  family  to  pastures  new.      As  the  man 
was  m  the  line  of  her  march,  she  stopped  and 
considered  what  was  to  be  done.      He  called  to 
me,  and  I  approached  slowly.      As  the  mother 
saw  me  closing  in  on  her  flank,  she  was  sud- 
denly seized  with  a  panic,    and,    droi)ping  her 
young,  fled  precipitately  for  the  cover  of  a  large 
pile  of  grape-posts  some  ten  or  twelve  roils  di*^- 
tant.      We  pursued  hotly,  and  overhauled  her 
as  she  was  within   one  jump   of  the   house  of 
refuge.      Taking  her  by  the  tail,  I  carried  her 
back  to  her  baby;  but  she  heeded  it  not.      It 


182  GLIMPSES   OF   WILD   LIFE 

was  only  her  own  bacon  now  that  she  was  soli- 
citous about.      The  young  one  remained  where 
it  had  been  dropped,  keeping  up  a  brave,  reas- 
suring whistle  that  was  in  ludicrous  contrast  to 
its  exposed  and  helpless  condition.      It  was  the 
smallest  woodchuck  I  had  ever  seen,  not  much 
larger  than  a  large  rat.      Its  head  and  shoulders 
were  so  large  in  proportion  to  the  body  as  to 
give  it  a  comical  look.     It  could  not  walk  about 
yet,  and  had  never  before  been  above  ground. 
Every  moment  or  two  it  would  whistle  cheerily, 
as  the  old  one  does  when  safe  in  its  den  and  the 
farm  dog  is  fiercely  baying  outside.      We  took 
the  youngster  home,  and  my  little  boy  was  de- 
lighted over  the  prospect  of  a  tame  woodchuck. 
Not  till  the  next  day  would  it  eat.      Then,  get- 
ting a  taste  of  the  milk,  it  clutched  the  spoon 
that  held  it  with  great   eagerness,  and  sucked 
away  like  a  little  pig.      We  were  all  immensely 
diverted  by  it.      It  ate  eagerly,  grew  rapidly, 
and  was  soon  able  to  run  about.      As  the  old 
one  had  been  killed,  we  became  curious  as  to 
the  fate  of  the  rest  of  her  family,  for  no  doubt 
there  Avere  more.      Had    she    moved  them,    or 
had  we  intercepted  her  on  her  first  trip  ?     We 
knew  where  the  old  den  was,  but  not  the  new. 
So  we  would  keep  a  lookout.      Near  the  end  of 
the  week,  on  passing  by  the  old  den,  there  were 
three  young  ones  creeping  about  a  few  feet  from 
its  mouth.      They  were   starved  out,    and  had 
come  forth  to  see  what  could  be  found.      We 
captured  them  all,   and  the  young  family  was 
again  united.      How  these  poor,  half-famished 


GLIMPSES   OF    WILD   LIFE  183 

creatures  did  lay  hold  of  the  spoon  when  they 
got  a  taste  of  the  milk!  One  could  not  help 
laughing.  Their  little  shinhig  black  paws  were 
so  handy  and  so  smooth ;  they  seemed  as  if  in- 
cased in  kid  gloves.  They  throve  well  upon 
milk,  and  then  upon  milk  and  clover.  l)ut 
after  the  novelty  of  the  thing  had  worn  off,  the 
boy  found  he  had  encumbered  himself  with  se- 
rious duties  in  assuming  the  position  of  foster- 
mother  to  this  large  family ;  so  he  gave  them  all 
away  but  one,  the  first  one  captured,  which  had 
outstripped  all  the  others  in  growth.  This 
soon  became  a  very  amusmg  pet,  but  it  always 
protested  when  handled,  and  always  objected  to 
confinement.  I  should  mention  that  the  cat  had 
a  kitten  about  the  age  of  the  chuck,  and  as  she 
had  more  milk  than  the  kitten  could  dispose  of, 
the  chuck,  when  we  first  got  him,  was  often 
placed  in  the  nest  with  the  kitten,  and  was 
regarded  by  the  cat  as  tenderly  as  her  own,  and 
allowed  to  nurse  freely.  Thus  a  friendship 
sprang  up  between  the  kitten  and  the  wood- 
chuck,  wdiich  lasted  as  long  as  the  latter  lived. 
They  w^ould  play  together  precisely  like  two 
kittens:  clinch  and  tumble  about  and  roll  upon 
the  grass  in  a  very  amusing  way.  Finally  the 
woodchuck  took  up  his  abode  under  the  floor  of 
the  kitchen,  and  gradually  relapsed  into  a  half- 
wild  state.  He  would  permit  no  familiarities 
from  any  one  save  the  kitten,  but  each  day  they 
would  have  a  turn  or  two  at  their  old  games  of 
rough-and-tumble.  The  chuck  was  now  over 
half  grown,  and  procured  his  own  living.      One 


184  GLIMPSES    OF   WILD   LIFE 

day  the  dog,  ^ho  had  all  along  looked  upon 
him  with  a  jealous  eye,  encountered  him  too 
far  from  cover,  and  his  career  ended  then  and 
there. 

In  July  the  woodchuck  was  forgotten  in  our 
interest  in  a  little  gray  rabbit  which  we  found 
nearly  famished.  It  was  so  small  that  it  could 
sit  in  the  hollow  of  one's  hand.  Some  accident 
had  probably  befallen  its  mother.  The  tiny 
creature  looked  spiritless  and  forlorn.  We  had 
to  force  the  milk  into  its  mouth.  But  in  a  day 
or  two  it  began  to  revive,  and  would  lap  the 
milk  eagerly.  Soon  it  took  to  grass  and  clover, 
and  then  to  nibbling  sweet  apples  and  early 
pears.  It  grew  rapidly,  and  was  one  of  the 
softest  and  most  harmless-looking  pets  I  had 
ever  seen.  For  a  month  or  more  the  little 
rabbit  was  the  only  company  I  had,  and  it 
helped  to  beguile  the  time  immensely.  In 
coming  in  from  the  field  or  from  my  work,  I 
seldom  failed  to  bring  it  a  handful  of  red  clover 
blossoms,  of  which  it  became  very  fond.  One 
day  it  fell  slyly  to  licking  my  hand,  and  I  dis- 
covered it  wanted  salt.  I  would  then  moisten 
my  fingers,  dip  them  into  the  salt,  and  offer 
them  to  the  rabbit.  How  rapidly  the  delicate 
little  tongue  would  play  upon  them,  darting  out 
to  the  right  and  left  of  the  large  front  incisors, 
the  slender  paws  being  pressed  against  my  hand 
as  if  to  detain  it !  But  the  rabbit  proved  really 
untamable;  its  wild  nature  could  not  be  over- 
come. In  its  large  box-cage  or  prison,  where 
it  could  see  nothing  but  the  tree  above  it,  it 


GLIMrSK.S   <JF    WILD   LIFE  18.5 

was  tame,    and  M-oukl  at  times  frisk   playfully 
about  my  hand  and  strike  it  gently  with  its  fore- 
feet;  but  the  moment  it  was  liberated  in  a  room 
or  let  down  in  the  grass  with  a  string  about  its 
neck,   all  its  wild  nature  came  forth.      In  the 
roora  it  would  run  and  hide;    in  the  oi.on   it 
would  make  desperate  eflorts  to  escape,  and  leap 
and  bound  as  you  drew  in  the  string  that  held 
it.      At  night,    too,    it    never    failed  to  try   t.-. 
make    its    escape   from    the   cage,   and    finally, 
when  two  thirds  grown,  succeeded,  and  we  saw 
it  no  more. 


Ill 

How  completely  the  life  of  a  bird  revolves 
about  its  nest,  its  home!      In  the  case  of  the 
wood-thrush,    its  life  and    joy  seem   to  mount 
higher  and  higher  as  the  nest  prospers.      The 
male  becomes  a  fountain  of  melody ;  his  hai)in- 
ness  waxes  day  by  day;  he  makes  little  trium- 
phal tours  about  the  neighborhood,  and  pours 
out  his  pride  and  gladness   in   the  ears  of  all. 
How  sweet,   how  well-bred,    is  his  demonstra- 
tion!    But  let  any  accident  befall  that  precious 
nest,  and  what  a  sudden  silence  falls  upon  him! 
Last    summer    a    pair    of    wood-thrushes    built 
their  nest  within  a  few  rods  of  my  house,  and 
when  the  enterprise  was  fairly  launched  and  the 
mother  bird  was  sitting  uj^on  her  four  blue  i^n^^, 
the  male  was  in  the  height  of  his  song.      How 
he  poured  forth  his  rich  melody,  never  in  the 
immediate    vicinity    of    the    nest,    but    alway? 


f 


186  GLIMPSES    OF   WILD    LIFE 

within  easy  hearing  distance !  Every  morning, 
as  promptly  as  the  morning  came,  between  five 
and  six,  he  would  sing  for  half  an  hour  from 
the  top  of  a  locust-tree  that  shaded  my  roof.  I 
came  to  expect  him  as  much  as  I  expected  my 
breakfast,  and  I  was  not  disappointed  till  one 
morning  I  seemed  to  miss  something.  What 
was  it?  Oh,  the  thrush  has  not  sung  this 
morning.  Something  is  the  matter;  and  recol- 
lecting that  yesterday  I  had  seen  a  red  squirrel 
in  the  trees  not  far  from  the  nest,  I  at  once 
inferred  that  the  nest  had  been  harried.  Go- 
ing to  the  spot,  I  found  my  fears  were  well 
grounded;  every  egg  was  gone.  The  joy  of 
the  thrush  was  laid  low.  No  more  songs  from 
the  treetop,  and  no  more  songs  from  any  point, 
till  nearly  a  week  had  elapsed,  when  I  heard 
him  again  under  the  hill,  where  the  pair  had 
started  a  new  nest,  cautiously  tuning  up,  and 
apparently  with  his  recent  bitter  experience 
still  weighing  upon  him. 

After  a  pair  of  birds  have  been  broken  up 
once  or  twice  during  the  season,  they  become 
almost  desperate,  and  will  make  great  efforts  tc 
outwit  their  enemies.  The  past  season  my  at- 
tention was  attracted  by  a  pair  of  brown  thrash^ 
ers.  They  first  built  their  nest  in  a  pasture- 
field  under  a  low,  scrubby  apple-tree  which  the 
cattle  had  browsed  down  till  it  spread  a  thick, 
wide  mass  of  thorny  twigs  only  a  few  inches 
above  the  ground.  Some  blackberry  briers  had 
also  grown  there,  so  that  the  screen  was  perfect. 
My  dog  first  started  the  bird,  as  I  was  passing 


GLIMPSES    OF    WILD    LJFK  187 

by.      P»y  stooping  low   ;iii<l    peering  intently,   I 
could   make  out  the   nest  and   eggs.      Two  'or 
three   times  a  week,    as   I   passed   by,    I    would 
pause  to  see  how  the  nest  was  prosix-ring      The 
mother  bird  would  keep  her  ]>lace,  her'' yellow 
eyes  never  blinking.      One  morning  as  I  looked 
into  her  tent  I  found   the  nest  empty.      Some 
night-prowler,     probably    a    skunk    or    fox,    or 
maybe  a  black   snake  or   red  squirrel  by  day 
had  plundered  it.      It  would  seem  as  if  it  wal 
too  well  screened :   it  was  in  such  a  spot  as  any 
depredator  would  be  apt  to  explore.     "Surely  " 
he   would    say,    'Hhis    is   a    likely   place   for 'a 
nest."     The  birds  then  moved  over  the  hill  a 
hundred  rods  or  more,  mucli  nearer  the  house, 
and    m    some  rather  open  bushes  tried  again! 
But    again    they   came    to   grief.      Then,    after 
some  delay,  the  mother  bird  made  a  l)old  stroke. 
She  seemed  to  reason  with  herself  thus:   "Since 
I  have  fared  so  disastrously  in  seeking  seclusion 
for  my  nest,  I  will  now  adopt  the  opposite  tac- 
tics, and  come  out  fairly  in  tlie  open.      AMiat 
hides  me  hides  my  enemies:   let  us  try  greater 
publicity."     So  she  came  out  and  built' her  nest 
by  a  few  small  shoots  that  grew  beside  the  path 
tliat  divides  the  two  vineyards,  and   where  we 
passed  to  and  fro  many  times  daily.      1  discov- 
ered her  by  chance   early  in   the  morning  as  1 
proceeded  to  my  work.      Slie  started  up  at  my 
feet     and     llitted     quickly     along     al)ove     the 
ploughed  ground,  almost  as  red  as  the  soil.      1 
admired  her   audacity.      Surely  no  prowler  by 
night  or  day  would  suspect  a  nest  in  this  open 


188  GLIMPSES    OF   WILD   LIFE 

and  exposed  place.  There  was  no  cover  by 
which  they  could  approach,  and  no  concealment 
anywhere.  The  nest  was  a  hasty  affair,  as  if 
the  birds'  patience  at  nest-building  had  been 
about  exhausted.  Presently  an  egg  appeared, 
and  then  the  next  day  another,  and  on  the 
fourth  day  a  third.  No  doubt  the  bird  would 
have  succeeded  this  time  had  not  man  inter- 
fered. In  cultivating  the  vinevards  the  horse 
and  cultivator  had  to  pass  over  this  very  spot. 
Upon  this  the  bird  had  not  calculated.  I  de- 
termined to  assist  her.  I  called  ray  man,  and 
told  him  there  was  one  spot  in  that  vineyard, 
no  bigger  than  his  hand,  where  the  horse's  foot 
must  not  be  allowed  to  fall,  nor  tooth  of  culti- 
vator to  touch.  Then  I  showed  him  the  nest, 
and  charged  him  to  avoid  it.  Probably  if  I 
had  kept  the  secret  to  myself  and  let  the  bird 
run  her  own  risk,  the  nest  would  have  escaped. 
But  the  result  was  that  the  man,  in  elaborately 
trying  to  avoid  the  nest,  overdid  the  matter; 
the  horse  plunged,  and  set  his  foot  squarely 
upon  it.  Such  a  little  spot,  the  chances  were 
few  that  the  horse's  foot  would  fall  exactly 
there ;  and  yet  it  did,  and  the  birds'  hopes  were 
again  dashed.  The  pair  then  disappeared  from 
my  vicinity,  and  I  saw  them  no  more. 

The  summer  just  gone  I  passed  at  a  farm- 
house on  the  skirts  of  the  Northern  Catskills. 
How  could  I  help  but  see  what  no  one  else  of 
all  the  people  about  seemed  to  notice,  —  a  little 
bob-tailed  song-sparrow  building  her  nest  in  a 
pile  of  dry  brush  very  near  the  kitchen  door. 


GLIMPSES   OF    WILD    LIFK  l«i) 

It  was  late  in  July,  and  slie  hail  ihmljtlesa 
reared  one  brood  in  tlie  earlier  season.  Her 
toilet  was  decidedly  the  worse  for  wear.  I 
noted  her  day  after  day  very  busy  about  the 
fence  and  quince  bushes  between  the  Ikjusc  and 
milk  house  with  her  beak  full  of  coarse  straw 
and  hay.  To  a  casual  observer  she  seemed  Hit- 
ting about  aimlessly,  carrying  straws  from  place 
to  place  just  to  amuse  herself.  When  I  came 
to  watch  her  closely  to  learn  the  place  of  her 
nest,  she  seemed  to  suspect  my  intention  and 
made  many  little  feints  and  movements  calcu- 
lated to  put  me  olf  the  track.  But  I  would  not 
be  misled,  and  presently  had  her  secret.  The 
male  did  not  assist  her  at  all,  but  sang  much  of 
the  time  in  an  apple-tree  or  upon  the  fence,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  house.  Those  artists  who 
paint  pictures  of  devoted  male  birds  singing 
from  the  branch  that  holds  the  nest,  or  in  its 
immediate  vicinity,  do  not  give  the  birds  credit 
for  all  the  wit  they  possess.  They  do  not  ad- 
vertise the  place  where  their  treasures  are  hid 
in  this  way.  See  yonder  indigo-bird  shaking 
out  its  happy  song  from  the  topmost  twig  of  the 
maple  or  oak;  its  nest  is  many  yards  away  in 
a  low  bush  not  more  than  three  feet  from  the 
ground. 

And  so  with  nearly  all  the  birds.  The  one 
thing  to  which  they  bend  all  tlieir  wits  is  the 
concealment  of  their  nests.  \\'lien  you  come 
upon  the  sitting  bird,  she  will  almost  let  you 
touch  her  rather  than  to  start  up  before  you  and 
thus  betray  her  secret.     The  bobolink   begins 


190  GLIMPSES    OF   WILD    LIFE 

to  scold  and  to  circle  about  you  as  soon  as  you 
enter  the  meadow  where  his  nest  is  so  well  hid- 
den. He  does  not  wait  to  show  his  anxiety  till 
you  are  almost  upon  it.  By  no  action  of  his 
can  you  get  a  clue  as  to  its  exact  whereabouts. 

The  song-sparrow  nearly  always  builds  upon 
the  ground,  but  my  little  neighbor  of  last  July 
laid  the  foundations  of  her  domicile  a  foot  or 
more  above  the  soil.  And  what  a  mass  of 
straws  and  twigs  she  did  collect  together! 
How  coarse  and  careless  and  aimless  at  first;  a 
mere  lot  of  rubbish  dropped  upon  the  tangle  of 
dry  limbs,  but  presently  how  it  began  to  refine 
and  come  into  shape  in  the  centre!  till  there 
was  the  most  exquisite  hair-lined  cup  set  about 
by  a  chaos  of  coarse  straws  and  branches. 
What  a  process  of  evolution!  The  completed 
nest  was  foreshadowed  by  the  first  stiff  straw, 
but  how  far  off  is  yet  that  dainty  casket  with 
its  complement  of  speckled  eggs !  The  nest  was 
so  placed  that  it  had  for  canopy  a  large  broad, 
drooping  leaf  of  yellow  dock.  This  formed  a 
perfect  shield  against  both  sun  and  rain,  while  it 
served  to  conceal  it  from  any  curious  eyes  from 
above,  —  from  the  cat,  for  instance,  prowling 
along  the  top  of  the  wall.  Before  the  eggs  had 
hatched  the  docken  leaf  wilted  and  dried  and 
fell  down  upon  the  nest.  But  the  mother  bird 
managed  to  insinuate  herself  beneath  it,  and 
went  on  with  her  brooding  all  the  same. 

Then  I  arranged  an  artificial  cover  of  leaves 
and  branches  which  shielded  her  charge  till  they 
had  flown  away.      A  mere  trifle  was  this  little 


GLIMPSES    OK    WILD   LIFE  1<J1 

bob-tailed  ])ir(l  with  lier  arts  and  licr  secrets, 
and  the  male  with  his  song,  and  yet  the  pail- 
gave  a  touch  of  something  to  those  days  and  to 
that  place  which  I  would  nut  willingly  have 
missed. 

I  have  spoken  of  nature  as  a  stage  whereon 
the  play,  more  or  less  interrupted  and  indirect, 
constantly  goes  on.      One  amusing  actor  upon 
that  stage  one  season,    upon   my  own  premises, 
was  a  certain  male  bluebird.      To  the  spectator- 
it  was  a  comedy,  but  to  the  actor  himself   I  im- 
agine it  was  quite  serious  Inisiness.      The  bird 
and  his  mate  had  a  nest  in  a  box  upon  an  out- 
house.     In  this  outhouse  was  a  whidow   with 
one  pane  broken  out.      At  almost  any  hour  in 
the  day  from  spring  to  early  summer,  the   male 
bird  could  be  seen  fluttering  and  pecking  against 
this  window  from  the  outside.      Did  he  want  to 
get  within  ?     Apparently  so,  and  yet  he  would 
now    and    then    pause    in    his   demonstrations, 
alight  in  the  frame  of  the  broken  pane,  look  in- 
tently within,  and  after  a  moment  resume   his 
assault  upon  the  window.      The  people  who  saw 
the  actions  of  the  bird  were  at  a  loss  how  to 
interpret  them.      But  I  could  see  at  once  what 
was  the  matter.      The  bird  saw  its  image  in  the 
mirror  of  the  glass  (the  dark  interior  helped  the 
reflection)  and  was  making  war  as  he  su])posed 
upon  a  rival.      Only  the  unyielding  glass  kept 
him  from  tweaking  out  every  saucy  blue  feather 
upon  the  spot!     Then  he  would  pi-ep  in  through 
the  vacant  pane  and  try  to  determine  where  his 
rival   had    so   suddenly   disappeared.      How    it 


192  GLIMPSES   OF   WILD   LIFE 

must  have  puzzled  his  little  poll!  And  he 
learned  nothing  from  experience.  Hundreds  of 
times  did  he  perch  in  the  broken  pane  and 
sharply  eye  the  interior.  And  for  two  months 
there  did  not  seem  to  be  an  hour  when  he  w^as 
not  assaulting  the  window.  He  never  lost  faith 
in  the  reality  of  the  bird  within,  and  he  never 
abated  one  jot  his  enmity  toward  him.  If  the 
glass  had  been  a  rough  surface  he  would  cer- 
tainly have  worn  his  beak  and  claws  and  wings 
to  mere  stubs.  The  incident  shows  the  pug- 
nacious disposition  of  the  bluebird,  and  it  shows 
how  shallow  a  bird's  wit  is  when  new  problems 
or  conditions  confront  it.  I  have  known  a 
cock-robin  to  assault  an  imaginary  rival  in  a 
garret  window,  in  the  same  manner,  and  keep 
up  the  warfare  for  weeks. 

On  still  another  occasion  similar  antics  of  a 
male  bluebird  greatly  disturbed  the  sleep  of  my 
hired  man  in  the  early  morning.  The  bird 
with  its  mate  had  a  nest  in  a  box  near  by  the 
house,  and  after  the  manner  of  the  bluebirds 
was  very  inquisitive  and  saucy  about  windows; 
one  morning  it  chanced  to  discover  its  reflected 
image  in  the  windows  of  the  hired  man's  room. 
The  shade,  of  some  dark  stuff,  was  down  on 
the  inside,  which  aided  in  making  a  kind  of 
looking-glass  of  the  window.  Instantly  the 
bird  began  an  assault  upon  his  supposed  rival 
in  the  window,  and  made  such  a  clattering  that 
there  was  no  more  sleep  inside  that  room. 
Morning  after  morning  the  bird  kept  this  up 
till  the  tired  ploughman  complained  bitterly  and 


GLIMPSES    OF    WILD    LIFE  193 

declared  his  intention  to  kill  the  bird.  In  an 
unlucky  moment  I  suggested  that  he  leave  the 
shade  up  and  try  the  etiect.  lie  did  so,  and 
his  morning  sleep  was  thenceforth  undisturbed. 
A  Western  correspondent  writes  me  that  she 
once  put  a  looking-glass  down  on  the  floor  in 
front  of  the  canary  bird's  cage  The  poor  ca- 
nary had  not  had  any  communion  with  his  own 
kind  for  years.  "He  used  often  to  watch  the 
ugly  sparrows  —  the  little  plebeians  —  from  his 
aristocratic  gilded  palace.  I  opened  his  cage 
and  he  walked  up  to  the  looking-glass  and  it 
was  not  long  before  he  made  up  his  mind.  He 
collected  dead  leaves,  twigs,  bits  of  paper,  and 
all  sorts  of  stray  bits,  and  began  a  nest  right  off. 
Several  days  after  in  his  lonely  cage  he  would 
take  bits  of  straw  and  arrange  them  when  they 
were  given  him.'' 


A   LIFE   OF   FEAE 

As  I  sat  looking  from  my  window  the  other 
morning  upon  a  red  squirrel  gathering  hickory- 
nuts  from  a  small  hickory,  and  storing  them  up 
in  his  den  in  the  bank,  I  was  forcibly  reminded 
of  the  state  of  constant  fear  and  apprehension 
in  which  the  wild  creatures  live,  and  I  tried  to 
picture  to  myself  what  life  would  be  to  me,  or 
to  any  of  us,  hedged  about  by  so  many  dangers, 
real  or  imaginary. 

The  squirrel  would  shoot  up  the  tree,  mak- 
ing only  a  brown  streak  from  the  bottom  to  the 
top;  would  seize  his  nut  and  rush  down  again 
in  the  most  precipitate  manner.  Half  way  to 
his  den,  which  was  not  over  three  rods  distant, 
he  would  rush  up  the  trunk  of  another  tree  for 
a  few  yards  to  make  an  observation.  No  dan- 
ger being  near,  he  would  dive  into  his  den  and 
reappear  again  in  a  twinkling. 

Returning  for  another  nut,  he  would  mount 
the  second  tree  again  for  another  observation. 
Satisfied  that  the  coast  was  clear,  he  would  spin 
along  the  top  of  the  ground  to  the  tree  that  bore 
the  nuts,  shoot  up  it  as  before,  seize  the  fruit, 
and  then  back  again  to  his  retreat. 

Never  did  he  fail  during  the  half  hour  or 
more  that  I  watched  him  to  take  an  observation 


A    Un:   OF    FKAK  jg- 

onl,i«  way  hoth  to  ,.,,,, 1    f,..„„    ,,i,„,,t        ,j 

snatch    and    run"     with    hi,,..       So,nothi>,.. 
seeme.1  to  say  to  hi,n  all  tho  ti,„o:   "Look  out" 
lookout!"    "Thec-iti"    "Ti.,.  ,       ,  7„    ,.?. , 
owl!"    "The  boy  with  the  gun'" 
fini'flT "'']"'''   I>'=ee,„her  „u,rni„c,;  the   first 
fine  flakes  of  a  coM,   driving  s„owstor„.  were 
ju.t  begiuuing  to  sift  down,   and  the  s.mirrel 
was  eager  to  finish  harvesting  his  „uts  in'ti„,e. 
It  wa,s  quite  touching  to  see  how  luirried  and 
anxious  and  nervous  he  was.      I  f,.lt  like  Knin.T 
out  and  lendnig  a  han.I.      The  nuts  were  si'iialf 
poor  i„g-nuts,  and  I  thought  of  all  the  gnawin^ 
he  won  d  have  to  do  to  get  at  the  scanty  mea°t 
they  held       My  little  boy  once  took  pity  on" 
squirre    that  lived  in  the  wall  near  the  gate  and 
cracked  the  nuts  for  him  and  put  them  upon  a 
small  board  shelf  in  the  tree  where  he  eould  sit 
and  eat  them  at  his  ease. 

Tlie  red  squirrel  is  not  so  provident  as  the 
chipmunk.      He  lays  up  stores  irregularlv,   by 
fits  and  starts;  he  never  has  enough  put  up  to 
carry  him  over  the  winter;  hence  he  is  more  or 
less  active  all  tlie  season.     Long  before  the  De- 
cember snow  the  cliipmunk  has  for  davs  been 
making  hourly  trips  to  his  den  with  full  pock- 
ets of  nuts  or  corn  or  buckwheat,  till  his  bin 
holds  enough  to  carry  him  througli  to  April 
He  need  not,  an<l  I  believe  does  not,  sot  foot 
out  of  doors  during  the  whole  winter.      But  tho 
red  squirrel  trusts  more  to  luck. 

As  alert  and  watchful  as  the  red  squirrel  is 
he  is  frequently  caught  by  the  cat.      My  Nig 


196  A   LIFE   OF   FEAR 

as  black  as  ebony,  knows  well  the  taste  of  his 
flesh.  I  have  known  him  to  be  caught  by  the 
black  snake  and  successfully  swallowed.  The 
snake,  no  doubt,  lay  in  ambush  for  him. 

This  fear,  this  ever  present   source  of  danger 
of  the  wild    creatures,    we  know  little    about. 
Probably  the  only  person  in  the  civilized  coun- 
tries who  is  no  better  off  than  the  animals  in 
this  respect  is  the  Czar  of  Eussia.      He  would 
not  even    dare   gather    nuts   as   openly  as   my 
squirrel.      A  blacker  and  more  terrible  cat  than 
Nig  would  be  lying  in  wait  for  him  and  would 
make   a   meal   of   him.      The  early  settlers   in 
this  country  must  have  experienced  something  of 
this  dread  of  apprehension    from  the  Indians. 
Many  African  tribes  now  live  in  the  same  state 
of  constant  fear  of  the  slave-catchers  or  of  other 
hostile  tribes.      Our  ancestors,  back  in  pre-his- 
toric  times,  or  back  of  that  in  geologic  times, 
must  have  known    fear    as  a  constant  feeling. 
Hence  the  prominence  of    fear  in  infants  and 
children  when  compared  with  the  youth  or  the 
grown  person.      Babies  are  nearly  always  afraid 
of  strangers. 

In  the  domestic  animals  also,  fear  is  much 
more  active  in  the  young  than  in  the  old. 
Nearly  every  farm  boy  has  seen  a  calf  but  a  day 
or  two  old,  which  its  mother  has  secreted  in  the 
woods  or  in  a  remote  field,  charge  upon  him  fu- 
riously with  a  wild  bleat,  when  first  discovered. 
After  this  first  ebullition  of  fear,  it  usually  set- 
tles down  into  the  tame  humdrum  of  its  bovine 
elders. 


A   LIFE   OF  FEAR  197 

Eternal  vigilance  is  the  price  of  life  with 
most  of  the  wild  creatures.  There  is  only  one 
among  them  Avhose  wildness  I  cannot  under- 
stand, and  that  is  the  common  water  turtle. 
Why  is  this  creature  so  fearful  ?  What  are  its 
enemies  1  I  know  of  nothing  that  preys  upon 
it.  Yet  see  how  watchful  and  suspicious  these 
turtles  are  as  they  sun  themselves  upon  a  log  or 
a  rock.  Before  you  are  fairly  in  gunshot  of 
them,  they  slide  down  into  the  water  and  are 
gone. 

The  land  turtle,  or  terrapin,  on  the  other 
hand,  shows  scarcely  a  trace  of  fear.  He  will 
indeed  pause  in  his  walk  when  you  are  very 
near  him,  but  he  will  not  retreat  into  his  shell 
till  you  have  poked  him  with  your  foot  or  your 
cane.  He  appears  to  have  no  enemies ;  but  the 
little  spotted  water  turtle  is  as  shy  as  if  he 
was  the  delicate  tidbit  that  every  creature  was 
searching  for.  I  did  once  find  one  which  a  fox 
had  dug  out  of  the  mud  in  winter,  and  carried 
a  few  rods  and  dropped  on  the  snow,  as  if  he 
had  found  he  had  no  use  for  it. 

One  can  understand  the  fearlessness  of  the 
skunk.  Nearly  every  creature  but  the  farm 
dog  yields  to  him  the  right  of  way.  All  dread 
his  terrible  weapon.  If  you  meet  one  in  your 
Avalk  in  the  twilight  fields,  the  chances  are  that 
you  will  turn  out  for  him,  not  he  for  you.  He 
may  even  pursue  you,  just  for  the  fun  of  seeing 
you  run.  He  comes  waltzing  toward  you,  ap- 
parently in  the  most  hilarious  spirits. 

The   coon   is   probably   the   most   courageous 


198  A   LIFE    OF   FEAR 

creature  among  our  familiar  wild  animals.  Who 
ever  saw  a  coon  show  the  white  feather?  He 
will  face  any  odds  with  perfect  composure.  I 
have  seen  a  coon  upon  the  ground,  beset  by 
four  men  and  two  dogs,  and  never  for  a  moment 
lose  his  presence  of  mind,  or  show  a  sign  of 
fear.      The  raccoon  is  clear  grit. 

The  fox  is  a  very  wild  and  suspicious  crea- 
ture, but  curiously  enough,  when  you  suddenly 
come  face  to  face  with  him,  when  he  is  held  by 
a  trap,  or  driven  by  the  hound,  his  expression 
is  not  that  of  fear,  but  of  shame  and  guilt.  He 
seems  to  diminish  in  size  and  to  be  over- 
whelmed with  humiliation.  Does  he  know 
himself  to  be  an  old  thief,  and  is  that  the  reason 
of  his  embarrassment  ?  The  fox  has  no  enemies 
but  man,  and  when  he  is  fairly  outwitted,  he 
looks  the  shame  he  evidently  feels. 

In  the  heart  of  the  rabbit  fear  constantly 
abides.  How  her  eyes  protrude !  She  can  see 
back  and  front  and  on  all  sides  as  well  as  a 
bird.  The  fox  is  after  her,  the  owls  are  after 
her,  the  gunners  are  after  her,  and  she  has  no 
defense  but  her  speed.  She  always  keeps  well 
to  cover.  The  Northern  hare  keeps  in  the 
thickest  brush.  If  the  hare  or  rabbit  crosses 
a  broad  open  exposure  it  does  so  hurriedly,  like 
a  mouse  when  it  crosses  the  road.  The  mouse 
is  in  danger  of  being  pounced  upon  by  a  hawk, 
and  the  hare  or  rabbit  by  the  snowy  owl,  or 
else  the  great  horned  owl. 

A  friend  of  mine  was  following  one  morning 
a   fresh    rabbit   track    through    an   open    field. 


A   LIFE   OF   FEAR.  199 

SuddenJy  the  track  came  to  an  end,  as  if  the 
creature  had  taken  wings  —  as  it  had  after  an 
unpleasant  fashion.  There,  on  either  side  of 
its  last  foot  imprint,  were  several  parallel  lines 
in  the  snow,  made  by  the  wings  of  the  great 
owl  that  had  swooped  down  and  carried  it  off. 
What  a  little  tragedy  was  seen  written  there 
upon  the  white,  even  surface  of  the  field! 

The  rabbit  has  not  much  wit.  I  once,  when 
a  boy,  saw  one  that  had  been  recently  caught, 
liberated  in  an  open  field  in  the  presence  of  a 
dog  that  was  being  held  a  few  yards  away. 
But  the  poor  thing  lost  all  presence  of  mind 
and  was  quickly  caught  by  the  clumsy  dog. 

A  hunter  once  saw  a  hare  running  upon  the 
ice  along  the  shore  of  one  of  the  Eangely  lakes. 
Presently  a  lynx  appeared  in  hot  pursuit;  as 
soon  as  the  hare  found  it  was  being  pursued, 
it  began  to  circle,  foolish  thing.  This  gave  the 
lynx  greatly  the  advantage,  as  it  could  follow  in 
a  much  smaller  circle.  Soon  the  hare  was  run 
do^vn  and  seized. 

•  I  saw  the  same  experiment  tried  with  a  red 
squirrel  with  quite  opposite  results.  The  boy 
who  had  caught  the  squirrel  in  his  wire  trap 
had  a  very  bright  and  nimble  dog  about  the 
size  of  a  fox,  that  seemed  to  be  very  sure  he 
could  catch  a  red  squirrel  under  any  circum- 
stances if  only  the  trees  were  out  of  the  way. 
So  the  boy  went  to  the  middle  of  an  open  field 
with  his  caged  squirrel,  the  dog,  who  seemed  to 
know  what  was  up,  dancing  and  jumping  about 
him.      It  was   in  midwinter;    the  snow   had  a 


200  A   LIFE   OF   FEAR 

firm  crust  that  held  boy  and  dog  alike.  The 
dog  was  drawn  back  a  few  yards  and  the  squir- 
rel liberated.  Then  began  one  of  the  most  ex- 
citing races  I  have  witnessed  for  a  long  time. 
It  was  impossible  for  the  lookers-on  not  to  be 
convulsed  with  laughter,  though  neither  dog 
nor  squirrel  seemed  to  regard  the  matter  as  much 
of  a  joke.  The  squirrel  had  all  his  wits  about 
him,  and  kept  them  ready  for  instant  use.  He 
did  not  show  the  slightest  confusion.  He  was 
no  match  for  the  dog  in  fair  running,  and  he 
discovered  this  fact  in  less  than  three  seconds; 
he  must  win,  if  at  all,  by  strategy.  Not  a 
straight  course  for  the  nearest  tree,  but  a  zigzag 
course;  yea,  a  double  or  treble  zigzag  course. 
Every  instant  the  dog  was  sure  the  squirrel  was 
his  and  every  instant  he  was  disappointed.  It 
was  incredible  and  bewildering  to  him.  The 
squirrel  dodged  this  way  and  that.  The  dog 
looked  astonished  and  vexed. 

Then  the  squirrel  issued  from  between  his 
hind  legs  and  made  three  jumps  toward  the 
woods  before  he  was  discovered.  Our  sides 
ached  with  laughter,  cruel  as  it  may  seem. 

It  was  evident  the  squirrel  would  win.  The 
dog  seemed  to  redouble  his  efforts.  He  would 
overshoot  the  game,  or  shoot  by  it  to  the  right 
or  left.  The  squirrel  was  the  smaller  craft  and 
could  out-tack  him  easily.  One  more  leap  and 
the  squirrel  was  up  a  tree,  and  the  dog  was 
overwhelmed  with  confusion  and  disgust. 

He  could  not  believe  his  senses.  "Not  catch 
a   squirrel  in  such  a  field  as  that?     Go  to,   I 


A   LIFE   OF   FEAR  201 

will  have  him  yet ! ''  and  he  bounds  up  the  tree 
as  high  as  one's  head,  and  then  bites  the  bark 
of  it  in  his  anger  and  chagrin. 

The  boy  says  his  dog  has  never  bragged  since 
about  catching  red  squirrels  "  if  only  the  trees 
were  out  of  reach !  " 

When  any  of  the  winged  creatures  are  en- 
gaged in  a  life  and  death  race  in  that  way,  or 
in  any  other  race,  the  tactics  of  the  squirrel  do 
not  work;  the  pursuer  never  overshoots  nor 
shoots  by  his  mark.  The  flight  of  the  two  is 
timed  as  if  they  were  parts  of  one  whole.  A 
hawk  will  pursue  a  sparrow  or  a  robin  through 
a  zigzag  course  and  not  lose  •  a  stroke  or  half^  a 
stroke  of  the  wing  by  reason  of  any  darting  to 
the  right  or  left.  The  clew  is  held  with  fatal 
precision.  No  matter  how  quickly  nor  how 
often  the  sparrow  or  the  finch  changes  its 
course,  its  enemy  changes,  simultaneously,  as  if 
every  move  was  known  to  it  from  the  first. 

^  The  same  thing  may  be  noticed  among  the 
birds  in  their  love  chasings;  the  pursuer  seems 
to  know  perfectly  the  mind  of  the  pursued. 
This  concert  of  action  among  birds  is  very  curi- 
ous. When  they  are  in  the  alert  a  flock  of 
sparrows,  or  pigeons,  or  cedar-birds,  or  snow- 
buntings,  or  blackbirds,  will  all  take  flight  as  if 
there  was  but  one  bird,  instead  of  a  hundred. 
The  same  impulse  seizes  every  individual  bird 
at  the  same  instant,  as  if  they  were  sprung  by 
electricity. 

Or  when  a  flock  of  birds  is  in  flight,  it  is 
still  one  body,  one  will;  it  will  rise,  or  circle, 


202  A   LIFE   OF   FEAR 

or  swoop,  with  a  unity  that  is  truly  astonish- 
ing. 

A  flock  of  snow-buntings  will  perform  their 
aerial  evolutions  with  a  precision  that  the  best- 
trained  soldiery  cannot  equal.  Have  the  birds 
an  extra  sense  which  we  have  not?  A  brood 
of  young  partridges  in  the  woods  will  start  up 
like  an  explosion,  every  brown  particle  and  frag- 
ment hurled  into  the  air  at  the  same  instant. 
Without  word  or  signal,  how  is  it  done? 


LOVERS    OF   NATURE 


We  love  nature  with  a  different  love  at  dif- 
ferent periods  of  our  lives.      In  youth  our  love 
is  sensuous.      It  is  not  so  much  a  conscious  love 
as  it  is  an  irresistible  attraction.     The  senses  are 
keen  and  fresh,  and  they  crave  a  field  for  their 
exercise.      We  delight  in  the  color  of  flowers, 
the  perfume  of  meadows  and  orchards,  the  moist, 
fresh  smell  of  the  woods.      We  eat  the  pungent 
roots  and  barks,  we  devour  the  wild  fruits,  we 
slay  the  small  deer.      Then  nature  also  offers  a 
field  of  adventure ;  it  challenges  and  excites  our 
animal   spirits.      The  woods  are  full  of   game, 
the  waters  of  fish;  the  river  invites  the  oar,  the 
breeze,   the    sail,    the  mountain-top  promises  a 
wide  prospect.      Hence  the  rod,   the  gun,   the 
boat,  the  tent,  the  pedestrian  club.      In  youth 
we  are  nearer  the   savage   state,    the  primitive 
condition  of    mankind  and  wild  nature  is  our 
proper  home.      The  transient  color  of  the  young 
bird  points  its  remote  ancestry,  and  the  taste  of 
youth  for  rude  nature  in  like  manner  is  the  sur- 
vival of  an  earlier  race  instinct. 

Later  in  life  we  go  to  nature  as  an  escape 
from  the  tension  and  turmoil  of  business,  or  for 


204  LOVERS    OF   NATURE 

rest  and  recreation  from  study,  or  seeking  solace 
from  grief  and  disappointment,  or  as  a  refuge 
from  the  frivolity  and  hypocrisies  of  society. 
We  lie  under  trees,  we  stroll  through  lanes,  or 
in  meadows  and  pastures,  or  muse  on  the  shore. 
Nature  "  salves  "  our  worst  wounds ;  she  heals 
and  restores  us. 

Or  we  cultivate  an  intellectual  pleasure  in 
nature,  and  follow  up  some  branch  of  natural 
science,  as  botany,  or  ornithology,  or  mineralogy. 

Then  there  is  the  countryman's  love  of  na- 
ture, the  pleasure  in  cattle,  horses,  bees,  grow- 
ing crops,  manual  labor,  sugar- making,  garden- 
ing, harvesting,  and  the  rural  quietness  and 
repose. 

Lastly  we  go  to  nature  for  solitude  and  for 
communion  with  our  own  souls.  Nature  at- 
tunes us  to  a  higher  and  finer  mood.  This 
love  springs  from  our  religious  needs  and  in- 
stincts. This  was  the  love  of  Thoreau,  of 
Wordsworth,  and  has  been  the  inspiration  of 
much  modern  poetry  and  art. 

Dr.  Johnson  said  he  had  lived  in  London  so 
long  that  he  had  ceased  to  note  the  changes  of 
the  seasons.  But  Dr.  Johnson  was  not  a  lover 
of  nature.  Of  that  feeling  for  the  country  of 
which  Wordsworth's  poetry,  for  instance,  is  so 
full,  he  probably  had  not  a  vestige.  Think  of 
Wordsworth  shut  up  year  in  and  year  out  —  in 
■the  city!  That  lover  of  shepherds,  of  moun- 
tains, of  lonely  tarns,  of  sounding  waterfalls,  — 
"  Who  looked  upon  the  hills  with  tenderness, 
And  made  dear  friendships  with  the  streams  and  groves.*' 


LOVERS    OF   NATURE  205 

Dr.  Johnson's  delight  was  in  men  and  in 
verbal  fisticuffs  with  them,  but  Wordsworth 
seems  to  have  loved  nature  more  than  men;  at 
least  he  was  drawn  most  to  those  men  who 
lived  closest  to  nature  and  were  more  a  part 
of  her.  Thus  he  says  he  loved  shepherds, 
"dwellers  in  the  valleys,'' 

"  Not  verily 
For  their  own  sakes,  but  for  the  fields  and  hills 
Where  was  their  occupation  and  abode." 

Your  real  lover  of  nature  does  not  love  the 
merely  beautiful  things  which  he  culls  here  and 
there ;  he  loves  the  earth  itself,  the  faces  of  the 
hills  and  mountains,  the  rocks,  the  streams,  the 
naked  trees  no  less  than   the   leafy  trees,  —  a 
ploughed    field  no  less  than  a  green   meadow. 
He  does  not  know  what  it  is  that  draws  him. 
It  is  not  beauty,  any  more  than  it  is  beauty  in 
his    father    and  mother    that   makes    him  love 
them.      It  is  "something  far  more  deeply   in- 
terfused, "  —  something  native  and  kindred  that 
calls  to  him.       In  certain  moods  how  good  the 
earth,    the  soil,   seems!     One  wants  to  feel  it 
with  his  hands  and  smell  it  —  almost  taste  it. 
Indeed,  I  never  see  a  horse  eat  soil  and  sods 
without  a  feeling  that  I  would  like  to  taste   it 
too.      The  rind  of  the  earth,  of  this  "round  and 
delicious  globe  "  which  has  hung  so  long  upon 
the  great  Newtonian  tree,  ripening  in  the  sun, 
must  be  sweet. 

I  recall  an  Irish  girl  lately  come  to  this  coun- 
try, who  worked  for  us,  and  who,  when  I  dug 
and  brought  to  the  kitchen  the  first  earlv  pota- 


206  LOVERS   OF   NATURE 

toes,  felt  them,  and  stroked  them  with  her 
hand,  and  smelled  them,  and  was  loath  to  lay 
them  down,  they  were  so  full  of  suggestion  of 
the  dear  land  and  home  she  had  so  lately  left. 
I  suppose  it  was  a  happy  surprise  to  her  to  find 
that  the  earth  had  the  same  fresh,  moist  smell 
here  that  it  had  in  Ireland,  and  yielded  the 
same  crisp  tubers.  The  canny  creature  had 
always  worked  in  the  fields,  and  the  love  of  the 
soil  and  of  homely  country  things  was  deep  in 
her  heart.  Another  emigrant  from  over  the 
seas,  a  laboring  man,  confined  to  the  town,  said 
to  me  in  his  last  illness,  that  he  believed  he 
would  get  well  if  he  could  again  walk  in  the 
fields.  A  Frenchman  who  fled  the  city  and 
came  to  the  country  said,  with  an  impressive 
gesture,  that  he  w^anted  to  be  where  he  could 
see  the  blue  sky  over  his  head. 

These  little  incidents  are  but  glints  or  faint 
gleams  of  that  love  of  nature  to  which  I  would 
point,  —  an  affection  for  the  country  itself,  and 
not  a  mere  passing  admiration  for  its  beauties. 
A  great  many  people  admire  nature;  they  write 
admiring  things  about  her;  they  apostrophize 
her  beauties;  they  describe  minutely  pretty 
scenes  here  and  there;  they  climb  mountains  to 
see  the  sun  set,  or  the  sun  rise,  or  make  long 
journeys  to  find  waterfalls,  but  nature's  real 
lover  listens  to  their  enthusiasm  with  coolness 
and  indiff"erence.  Nature  is  not  to  be  praised 
or  patronized.  You  cannot  go  to  her  and  de- 
scribe her;  she  must  speak  through  your  heart. 
The  woods  and  fields  must  melt  into  your  mind, 


LOVERS    OF   NATURE  207 

dissolved  by  your  love  for  them.  Did  they  not 
melt  into  Wordsworth's  mind?  They  colored 
all  his  thoughts;  the  solitude  of  those  green, 
rocky  Westmoreland  fells  broods  over  every 
page.  He  does  not  tell  us  how  beautiful  he 
finds  nature  and  how  much  he  enjoys  her,  he 
makes  us  share  his  enjoyment. 

Eichard  JefFeries  was  probably  as  genuine  a 
lover  of  nature  as  was  Wordsworth,  but  he  had 
not  the  same  power  to  make  us  share  his  enjoy- 
ment. His  page  is  sometimes  wearisome  from 
mere  description  and  enumeration.  He  is 
rarely  interpretative;  the  mood,  the  frame  of 
mind,  which  nature  herself  begets,  he  seldom 
imparts  to  us.  What  we  finally  love  in  nature 
is  ourselves,  some  suggestion  of  the  human 
spirit,  and  no  labored  description,  or  careful 
enumeration  of  details  will  bring  us  to  this. 

"  Nor  do  words 
Which  practiced  talent  readily  affords, 
Prove  that  her  hand  has  touched  responsive  chords." 

It  has  been  aptly  said  that  Jefferies  was  a 
reporter  of  genius  but  that  he  never  (in  his  na- 
ture books)  got  beyond  reporting.  His  "  Wild 
Life  "  reads  like  a  kind  of  field  newspaper ;  he 
puts  in  everything,  he  is  diligent  and  untiring, 
but  for  much  of  it  one  cares  very  little  after 
he  is  through.  For  selecting  and  combining 
the  things  of  permanent  interest  so  as  to  excite 
curiosity  and  impart  charm,  he  has  but  little 
power. 

The  passion  for  nature  is  by  no  means  a  mere 
curiosity   about  her,    or   an  itching  to   portray 


208  LOVERS    OF   NATURE 

certain  of  her  features;  it  lies  deeper  and  is 
probably  a  form  of,  or  closely  related  to,  our 
religious  instincts.  When  you  go  to  nature, 
bring  us  good  science  or  else  good  literature, 
and  not  a  mere  inventory  of  what  you  have 
seen.      One  demonstrates,  the  other  interprets. 

Observation  is  selective  and  detective.  A 
real  observation  begets  warmth  and  joy  in  the 
mind.  To  see  things  in  detail  as  they  lie  about 
you  and  enumerate  them  is  not  observation; 
but  to  see  the  significant  things,  to  seize  the 
quick  movement  and  gesture,  to  disentangle  the 
threads  of  relation,  to  know  the  nerves  that 
thrill  from  the  cords  that  bind,  or  the  typical 
and  vital  from  the  commonplace  and  mechanical 
—  that  is  to  be  an  observer.  In  Thoreau's 
"  Walden  "  there  is  observation;  in  the  Journals 
published  since  his  death  there  is  close  and  pa- 
tient scrutiny,  but  only  now  and  then  any- 
thing that  we  care  to  know.  Considering  that 
Thoreau  spent  half  of  each  day  for  upward  of 
twenty  years  in  the  open  air,  bent  upon  spying 
out  nature's  ways  and  doings,  it  is  remarkable 
that  he  made  so  few  real  observations. 

Yet  how  closely  he  looked!  He  even  saw 
that  mysterious  waving  line  which  one  may 
sometimes  note  in  little  running  brooks.  "I 
see  stretched  from  side  to  side  of  this  smooth 
brook  where  it  is  three  or  four  feet  wide  what 
seems  to  indicate  an  invisible  waving  line,  like 
a  cobweb  against  which  the  water  is  heaped  up 
a  very  little.  This  line  is  constantly  swayed 
to  and  fro,  as  if  by  the  current  or  wind,  belly- 


LOVERS    OF   NATURE  209 

ing  forward  here  and  there.  I  try  repeatedly 
to  catch  and  break  it  with  my  hand  and  let  the 
water  run  free,  but  still  to  my  surprise  I  clutch 
nothing  but  fluid,  and  the  imaginary  line  keeps 
its  place." 

A  little  closer  scrutiny  would  have  shown  him 
that  this  waving  water  line  was  probably  caused 
in  some  way  by  the  meeting  of  two  volumes  or 
currents  of  water. 

The  most  novel  and  interesting  observation  I 
can  now  recall  is  his  discovery  of  how  the  wild 
apple-tree  in  the  pastures  triumphs  over  the 
browsing  cattle,  namely,  by  hedging  itself  about 
by  a  dense  thorny  growth,  keeping  the  cows  at 
arm's  length  as  it  were,  and  then  sending  up  a 
central  shoot  beyond  their  reach. 

One  of  the  most  acute  observations  Thoreau's 
Journals  contain  is  not  upon  nature  at  all,  but 
upon  the  difference  between  men  and  women 
"in  respect  to  the  adornment  of  their  heads:" 
"Do  you  ever  see  an  old  or  jammed  bonnet  on 
the  head  of  a  woman  at  a  public  meeting  ?  But 
look  at  any  assembly  of  men  with  their  hats 
on;  how  large  a  proportion  of  the  hats  will  be 
old,  weather-beaten,  and  indented ;  but,  I  think, 
so  much  more  picturesque  and  interesting. 
One  farmer  rides  by  my  door  in  a  hat  which  it 
does  me  good  to  see,  there  is  so  much  character 
in  it,  so  much  independence,  to  begin  with,  and 
then  afl'ection  for  his  old  friends,  etc.,  etc.  I 
should  not  wonder  if  there  were  lichens  on  it. 
.  .  .  Men  wear  their  hats  for  use,  women 
theirs  for  ornament.      I  have  seen  the  greatest 


210  LOVERS   OF   NATURE 

philosopher  in  the  town  with  what  the  traders 
would  call  a  'shocking  bad  hat '  on,  but  the 
woman  whose  bonnet  does  not  come  up  to  the 
mark  is  at  best  a  blue- stocking." 

So  clever  an  observation  upon  anything  in 
nature  as  that  is  hard  to  find  in  the  Journals. 

To  observe  is  to  discriminate  and  take  note 
of  all  the  factors. 

One  day  while  walking  in  my  vineyard,  la- 
menting the  damage  the  storm  of  yesterday  had 
wrought  in  it,  my  ear  caught,  amid  the  medley 
of  other  sounds  and  songs,  an  unfamiliar  bird- 
note  from  the  air  overhead.  Gradually  it 
dawned  upon  my  consciousness  that  this  was 
not  the  call  of  any  of  our  native  birds,  but  of  a 
stranger.  Looking  steadily  in  the  direction  the 
sound  came,  after  some  moments  I  made  out 
the  form  of  a  bird  flying  round  and  round  in  a 
large  circle  high  in  air,  and  momentarily  utter- 
ing its  loud  sharp  call.  The  size,  the  shape, 
the  manner,  and  the  voice  of  the  bird  were  all 
strange.  In  a  moment  I  knew  it  to  be  an  Eng- 
lish skylark,  apparently  adrift  and  undecided 
which  way  to  go.  Finally  it  seemed  to  make 
up  its  mind,  and  then  bore  away  to  the  north. 
My  ear  had  been  true  to  its  charge^ 

The  man  who  told  me  that  some  of  our  birds 
took  an  earth  bath,  and  some  of  them  a  water 
bath,  and  a  few  of  them  took  both,  had  looked 
closer  into  this  matter  than  I  had.  The  spar- 
rows usually  earth  their  plumage,  but  the  Eng- 
lish sparrow  does  both.  The  farm  boy  who 
told  a  naturalist  a  piece  of  news  about  the  tur- 


LOVERS    OF    NATURE  211 

ties,  namely,  that  the  reason  why  we  never  see 
any  small  turtles  about  the  fields  is  because  for 
two  or  three  years  the  young  turtles  bury  them- 
selves in  the  ground  and  keep  quite  hidden  from 
sight,  had  used  his  eyes  to  some  purpose. 
This  was  a  real  observation. 

Just  as  a  skilled  physician,  in  diagnosing  a 
case,  picks  out  the  significant  symptoms  and 
separates  them  from  the  rest,  so  the  real  ob- 
server, with  eye  and  ear,  seizes  what  is  novel 
and  characteristic  in  the  scenes  about  him. 
His  attention  goes  through  the  play  at  the  sur- 
face and  reaches  the  rarer  incidents  beneath  or 
beyond. 

Richard  JefFeries  was  not  strictly  an  obser- 
ver; he  was  a  loving  and  sympathetic  spectator 
of  the  nature  about  him,  a  poet  if  you  please, 
but  he  tells  us  little  that  is  memorable  or  sug- 
gestive. His  best  books  are  such  as  the 
"Gamekeeper  at  Home,"  and  the  "Amateur 
Poacher,''  where  the  human  element  is  brought 
in,  and  the  descriptions  of  nature  are  relieved 
by  racy  bits  of  character  drawing.  By  far  the 
best  thing  of  all  is  a  paper  which  he  wrote 
shortly  before  his  death,  called  "  My  Old  Vil- 
lage."  It  is  very  beautiful  and  pathetic,  and 
reveals  the  heart  and  soul  of  the  man  as  no- 
thing else  he  has  written  does.  I  must  permit 
myself  to  transcribe  one  paragraph  of  it.  It 
shows  how  he,  too,  was  under  the  spell  of  the 
past,  and  such  a  recent  past,  too :  — 

"I  think  I  have  heard  that  the  oaks  are 
down.      They  may  be  standing  or  down,  it  mat- 


212  LOVERS    OF   NATURE 

ters  nothing  to  me;  the  leaves  I  last  saw  upon 
them  are  gone  for  evermore,  nor  shall  I  ever 
see  them  come  there  again,  ruddy  in  spring. 
I  would  not  see  them  again,  even  if  I  could; 
they  could  never  look  again,  as  they  used  to  do. 
There  are  too  many  memories  there.  The  hap- 
piest days  become  the  saddest  afterward;  let 
us  never  go  back,  lest  we  too  die.  There  are 
no  such  oaks  anywhere  else,  none  so  tall  and 
straight,  and  with  such  massive  heads,  on  which 
the  sun  used  to  shine  as  if  on  the  globe  of  the 
earth,  one  side  in  shadow,  the  other  in  bright 
light.  How  often  I  have  looked  at  oaks  since, 
and  yet  have  never  been  able  to  get  the  same 
effect  from  them !  Like  an  old  author  printed 
in  another  type,  the  words  are  the  same,  but 
the  sentiment  is  different.  The  brooks  have 
ceased  to  run.  There  is  no  music  now  at  the 
old  hatch  where  we  used  to  sit,  in  danger  of 
our  lives,  happy  as  kings,  on '  the  narrow  bar 
over  the  deep  water.  The  barred  pike  that 
used  to  come  up  in  such  numbers  are  no  more 
among  the  flags.  The  perch  used  to  drift  down 
the  stream  and  then  bring  up  again.  The  sun 
shone  there  for  a  very  long  time,  and  the  water 
rippled  and  sang,  and  it  always  seemed  to  me 
that  I  could  feel  the  rippling  and  the  singing 
and  the  sparkling  back  through  the  centuries. 
The  brook  is  dead,  for  where  man  goes,  nature 
ends.  I  dare  say  there  is  water  there  still,  but 
it  is  not  the  brook ;  the  brook  is  gone  like  John 
Brown's  soul  [not  our  John  Brown].  There 
used  to  be  clouds  over  the  fields,  white  clouda 


LOVERS   OF   NATURE  213 

in  blue  summer  skies.  I  have  lived  a  good 
deal  on  clouds;  they  have  been  meat  to  me 
often ;  they  bring  something  to  the  spirit  which 
even  the  trees  do  not.  I  see  clouds  now  some- 
times when  the  iron  gripe  of  hell  permits  for  a 
minute  or  two;  they  are  very  different  clouds 
and  speak  differently.  I  long  for  some  of  the 
old  clouds  that  had  no  memories.  There  were 
nights  in  those  times  over  those  fields,  not 
darkness,  but  Night,  full  of  glowing  suns  and 
glowing  richness  of  life  that  sprang  up  to  meet 
them.  The  nights  are  there  still;  they  are 
everyAvhere,  nothing  local  in  the  night;  but  it 
is  not  the  Night  to  me  seen  through  the  win- 
dow. " 

In  the  literature  of  nature  I  know  of  no  page 
so  pathetic  and  human. 

Moralizing  about  nature  or  through  nature  is 
tedious  enough,  and  yet  unless  the  piece  has 
some  moral  or  emotional  background  it  does  not 
touch  us.  In  other  words,  to  describe  a  thing 
for  the  mere  sake  of  describing  it,  to  make  a 
dead  set  at  it  like  a  reporter,  whatever  may  be 
the  case  in  painting,  it  will  not  do  in  literature. 
The  object  must  be  informed  with  meaning,  and 
to  do  this  the  creative  touch  of  the  imagination 
is  required.  Take  this  passage  from  AVhitman 
on  the  night,  and  see  if  there  is  not  more  than 
mere  description  there :  — 

"  A  large  part  of  the  sky  seemed  just  laid  in 
great  splashes  of  phosphorus.  You  could  look 
deeper  in,  farther  through,  than  usual  ;  the  orbs 
thick  as  heads  of  wheat  in  a  field.      Not  that 


214  LOVERS   OF   NATURE 

there  was  any  special  brilliancy  either  —  no- 
thing near  as  sharp  as  I  have  seen  of  keen  win- 
ter nights,  but  a  curious  general  luminousness 
throughout  to  sight,  sense,  and  soul.  The  latter 
had  much  to  do  with  it.  .  .  .  l!^ow,  indeed, 
if  never  before,  the  heavens  declared  the  glory 
of  God.  It  was  to  the  full  the  sky  of  the  Bible, 
01  Arabia,  of  the  prophets,  and  of  the  oldest 
poems. " 

Or  this  touch  of  a  January  night  on  the  Del- 
aware River :  — 

"Overhead,  the  splendor  indescribable;  yet 
something  haughty,  almost  supercilious,  in  the 
night;  never  did  I  realize  more  latent  senti- 
ment, almost  2^(^881071,  in  the  silent  intermin- 
able stars  up  there.  One  can  understand  on  such 
a  night  why,  from  the  days  of  the  Pharaohs  or 
Job,  the  dome  of  heaven,  sprinkled  with  planets, 
has  supplied  the  subtlest,  deepest  criticism  on 
human  pride,  glory,  ambition." 

Matthew  Arnold  quotes  this  passage  from 
Obermann  as  showing  a  rare  feeling  for  na- 
ture :  — 

"My  path  lay  beside  the  green  waters  of  the 
Thiele.  Feeling  inclined  to  muse,  and  finding 
the  night  so  warm  that  there  was  no  hardship 
in  being  all  night  out  of  doors,  I  took  the  road 
to  Saint  Blaise.  I  descended  a  steep  bank, 
and  got  upon  the  shore  of  the  lake  where  its 
ripple  Game  up  and  expired.  The  air  was 
calm;  every  one  was  at  rest;  I  remained  there 
for  hours.  Toward  morning  the  moon  shed 
over  the  earth  and  waters  the  ineffable  melan- 


LOVERS   OF   NATURE  215 

choly  of    her  last  gleams.      Nature  seems  un- 
speakably grand,  when,  plunged  in  a  long  rev- 
erie, one  hears  the  rippling  of  the  waters  upon 
a  solitary  strand,  in  the  calm  of  a  night  still 
enkindled  and  luminous  with  the  setting  moon. 
"Sensibility    beyond    utterance,    charm    and 
torment  of  our  vain  years;   vast  consciousness 
of  a  nature  everywhere  greater  than  we  are,  and 
everywhere     impenetrable;    all-embracing    pas- 
sion,   ripened    wisdom,    delicious    self-abandon- 
ment —  everything  that  a  mortal  heart  can  con- 
tain of  life- weariness  and  yearning,  I  felt  it  all. 
I  experienced  it  all,  in  this  memorable  night. 
I  have  made  a  grave  step  toward  the  age  of  de- 
cline.     I  have  swallowed  up  ten  years  of  life  at 
once.     Happy  the  simple  whose  heart  is  always 
young !  " 

The  moral  element  is  behind  this  also,  and 
is  the  source  of  its  value  and  charm.  In  litera- 
ture never  nature  for  her  own  sake,  but  for  the 
sake  of  the  soul  which  is  over  and  above  all. 


II 

One  of  the  most  desirable  things  in  life  is  a 
fresh  impression  of  an  old  fact  or  scene.  One's 
love  of  nature  may  be  a  constant  factor,  yet  it 
is  only  now  and  then  that  he  gets  a  fresh  im- 
pression of  the  charm  and  meaning  of  nature; 
only  now  and  then  that  the  objects  without  and 
the  mood  within  so  fit  together  that  we  have  a 
vivid  and  original  sense  of  the  beauty  and  sig- 
nificance that  surround  us.      How  often  do  we 


216  LOVERS   OF   NATURE 

really  see  the  stars'?  Probably  a  great  many 
people  never  see  them  at  all  —  that  is,  never 
look  upon  them  with  any  thrill  of  emotion.  If 
I  see  them  a  few  times  a  year,  I  think  myself 
in  luck.  If  I  deliberately  go  out  to  see  them, 
I  am  quite  sure  to  miss  them;  but  occasionally, 
as  one  glances  up  to  them  in  his  lonely  night 
walk,  the  mind  opens,  or  the  heaven  opens  — 
which  is  it  ?  —  and  he  has  a  momentary  glimpse 
of  their  ineffable  splendor  and  significance. 
How  overwhelming,  how  awe-inspiring!  His 
thought  goes  like  a  lightning  flash  into  that 
serene  abyss,  and  then  the  veil  is  drawn  again. 
One's  science,  one's  understandmg,  tells  him 
he  is  a  voyager  on  the  celestial  deep,  that  the 
earth  beneath  his  feet  is  a  star  among  stars, 
that  we  can  never  be  any  more  in  the  heavens 
than  we  are  now,  or  any  more  within  reach  of 
the  celestial  laws  and  forces;  but  how  rare  the 
mood  in  which  we  can  realize  this  astounding 
fact,  in  which  we  can  get  a  fresh  and  vivid  im- 
pression of  it!  To  have  it  ever  present  with 
one  in  all  its  naked  grandeur  would  perhaps  be 
more  than  we  could  bear. 

The  common  and  the  familiar  —  how  soon 
they  cease  to  impress  us!  The  great  service  of 
genius,  speaking  through  art  and  literature,  is 
to  pierce  through  our  callousness  and  indifiference 
and  give  us  fresh  impressions  of  things  as  they 
really  are;  to  present  things  in  new  combina- 
tions, or  from  new  points  of  view,  so  that  they 
shall  surprise  and  delight  us  like  a  new  revela. 
tion.      When  poetry  does  this,  or  when  art  does 


LOVERS    OF   NATURE  217 

it,  or  when  science  does  it,  it  recreates  the 
M^orld  for  us,  and  for  the  moment  we  are  again 
Adam  in  paradise. 

Herein  lies  one  compensation  to  the  lover  of 
nature  who  is  an  enforced  dweller  in  the  town : 
the  indifference  which  familiarity  breeds  is  not 
his.      His  weekly  or  monthly  sallies   into  the 
country  yield  him  a  rare  delight.      To  his  fresh, 
eager  senses  the  charm  of  novelty  is  over  all. 
Country  people  look    with   a   kind   of   pitying 
amusement  upon  the  delight  of  their  newly  ar- 
rived city  friends;  but  would  we  not,  after  all, 
give  something  if  we  could  exchange  eyes  with 
them  for  a  little  wliile  ? 

We  who  write  about  nature  pick  out,  I  sus- 
pect, only  the  rare  moments  when  we  have  had 
glimpses  of  her,  and  make  much  of  them.      Our 
lives  are  dull,  and  our  minds  crusted  over  with 
rubbish    like    those    of     other    people.       Then 
writing  about  nature,  as  about  most  other  sub- 
jects, is  an  expansive  process;  we  are  under  the 
law  of  evolution;  we  grow  the  germ  into  the 
tree;  a  little  original  observation  goes  a  good 
ways.      Life  is  a  compendium.       The  record  in 
our  minds  and  hearts  is  in  shorthand.      When 
M^e  come  to  write  it  out,  we  are  surprised  at  its 
length   and   significance.      What   we  feel    in   a 
twinkling  it  takes  a  long  time  to  tell  to  another. 
When  I  pass    along  by  a  meadow  in  June, 
where  the  bobolinks  are  singing  and  the  daisies 
dancing  in  the  wind,  and  the  scent  of  the  clover 
is  in  the   air,  and  where   the  boys  and  girls  are 
looking  for  wild   strawberries   in    the   grass,    I 


218  LOVERS   OF   NATUEE 

take  it  all  in  in  a  glance,  it  enters  swiftly 
through  all  my  senses;  but  if  I  set  about  writ- 
ing an  account  of  my  experience  for  my  reader, 
how  long  and  tedious  the  process,  how  I  must 
beat  about  the  bush!  And  then,  if  I  would 
have  him  see  and  feel  it,  I  must  avoid  a  point- 
blank  description  and  bring  it  to  him,  or  him 
to  it,  by  a  kind  of  indirection,  so  as  to  surprise 
him  and  give  him  more  than  I  at  first  seemed 
to  promise. 

To  a  countryman  like  myself  the  presence  of 
natural  objects,  the  open  face  of  the  country, 
sheds  a  cheering  and  soothing  influence  at  all 
times;  but  it  is  only  at  rare  intervals  that  he 
experiences  the  thrill  of  a  fresh  impression.  I 
find  that  a  kind  of  preoccupation,  as  the  farmer 
with  his  Avork,  the  angler  with  his  rod,  the 
sportsman  with  his  gun,  the  walker  with  his 
friend,  the  lounger  with  his  book,  aff'ords  con- 
ditions that  are  not  to  be  neglected.  So  much 
will  steal  in  at  the  corners  of  your  eyes;  the 
unpremeditated  glance,  when  the  mind  is  passive 
and  receptive,  often  stirs  the  soul.  Upon 
whom  does  the  brook  make  such  an  impression 
as  upon  the  angler?  How  he  comes  to  know 
its  character!  how  he  studies  its  every  phase! 
how  he  feels  it  through  that  rod  and  line  as  if 
they  were  a  part  of  himself!  I  pity  the  per- 
son who  does  not  get  at  least  one  or  two  fresh 
impressions  of  the  charm  and  sweetness  of  na- 
ture in  the  spring.  Later  in  the  season  it  gets 
to  be  more  of  an  old  story ;  but  in  March  whe-u 
the  season  is  early,  and  in  April  when,  the  se^ 


LOVERS   OF   NATURE  219 

son  is  late,  there  occasionally  come  days  which 
awaken  a  new  joy  in  the  heart.  Every  recur- 
ring spring  one  experiences  this  fresh  delight. 
There  is  nothing  very  tangible  yet  in  awaken- 
ing nature,  but  there  is  something  in  the  air, 
some  sentiment  in  the  sunshine  and  in  the  look 
of  things,  a  prophecy  of  life  and  renewal,  that 
sends  a  thrill  through  the  frame.  The  first 
sparrow's  song,  the  first  robin's  call,  the  first 
bluebird's  warble,  the  first  phoebe's  note  —  who 
can  hear  it  without  emotion?  Or  the  first  flock 
of  migrating  geese  or  ducks  —  how  much  they 
bring  north  with  them !  When  the  red-shoul- 
dered starlings  begin  to  gurgle  in  the  elms  or 
golden  willows  along  the  marshes  and  water- 
courses, you  will  feel  spring  then;  and  if  you 
look  closely  upon  the  ground  beneath  them,  you 
will  find  that  sturdy  advanced  guard  of  our 
floral  army,  the  skunk  cabbage,  thrusting  his 
spear-point  up  through  the  ooze,  and  spring 
will  again  quicken  your  pulse. 

One  seems  to  get  nearer  to  nature  in  the  early 
spring  days:  all  screens  are  removed,  the  earth 
everywhere  speaks  directly  to  you;  she  is  not 
hidden  by  verdure  and  foliage;  there  is  a  pe- 
culiar delight  in  walking  over  the  brown  turf  of 
the  fields  that  one  cannot  feel  later  on.  How 
welcome  the  smell  of  it,  warmed  by  the  sun; 
the  first  breath  of  the  reviving  earth.  How 
welcome  the  full,  sparkling  watercourses  too, 
everywhere  drawing  the  eye;  by  and  by  they 
will  be  veiled  by  the  verdure  and  shrunken  by 
the  heat.      When  March  is  kind,  for  how  much 


220  LOVERS   OF   NATURE 

her  slightest  favors  count !     The  other  evening, 
as  I  stood  on  the  slope  of  a  hill  in  the  twilight, 
I  heard  a  whistling  of  approaching  wings,  and 
presently   a   woodcock   flying   low   passed   near 
me.      I  could  see  his  form  and  his  long  curved 
wings  dimly  against  the  horizon ;  his  whistling 
slowly  vanished  in  the  gathering  night,  but  his 
passage  made  something  stir  and  respond  within 
me.      March  was  on  the  wing,  she  was  abroad 
in    the    soft    still    twilight    searching    out    the 
moist,    springy  places    where    the    worms    first 
come  to  the  surface  and  where  the  grass  first 
starts;  and  her  course  was  up  the  valley  from 
the  south.      A  day  or  two  later  I  sat  on  a  hill- 
side in  the  woods   late    in  the  day,    amid  the 
pines  and  hemlocks,  and  heard  the  soft,  elusive 
spring  call  of  the  little  owl  —  a  curious  musical 
undertone  hardly  separable  from  the  silence;  a 
bell,  muffled  in  feathers,  tolling  in  the  twilight 
of  the  woods  and  discernible  only  to  the  most 
alert  ear.      But  it  was  the  voice  of  spring,  the 
voice  of  the  same  impulse  that  sent  the  wood- 
cock winging  his  way  through  the  dusk,  that 
was  just  beginning  to  make  the  pussy  willows 
swell  and  the  grass  to  freshen   in   the  spring 
runs. 

Occasionally,  of  a  bright,  warm,  still  day  in 
March,  such  as  we  have  had  the  present  season, 
the  little  flying  spider  is  abroad.  It  is  the 
most  delicate  of  all  March  tokens,  but  very 
suggestive.  Its  long,  waving  threads  of  gossa- 
mer, invisible  except  when  the  sunlight  falls 
upon  them  at  a  particular  angle,  stream  out  here 


LOVERS    OF    NATURE  221 

and  there  upon  the  air,  a  filament  of  life,  reach- 
ing and  reaching  as  if  to  catch  and  detain  the 
most  subtle  of  the  skyey  influences. 

Nature   is   always   new   in  the  spring,    and 
lucky  are  we  if  it  finds  us  new  also. 


A  TASTE   OF   KENTUCKY   BLUE- 

GrRASS 

How  beautiful  is  fertility !  A  landscape  of 
fruitful  and  well- cultivated  fields ;  an  unbroken 
expanse  of  grass;  a  thick,  uniform  growth  of 
grain  —  how  each  of  these  fills  and  satisfies  the 
eye !  And  it  is  not  because  we  are  essentially 
'jtilitarian  and  see  the  rich  loaf  and  the  fat 
beef  as  the  outcome  of  it  all,  but  because  we 
read  in  it  an  expression  of  the  beneficence  and 
good- will  of  the  earth.  We  love  to  see  harmony 
between  man  and  nature;  we  love  peace  and 
not  war;  we  love  the  adequate,  the  complete. 
A  perfect  issue  of  grass  or  grain  is  a  satisfaction 
to  look  upon,  because  it  is  a  success.  These 
things  have  the  beauty  of  an  end  exactly  ful- 
filled, the  beauty  of  perfect  fitness  and  propor- 
tion. The  barren  in  nature  is  ugly  and  repels 
us,  unless  it  be  on  such  a  scale  and  convey  such 
a  suggestion  of  power  as  to  awaken  the  emotion 
of  the  sublime.  What  can  be  less  mviting 
than  a  neglected  and  exhausted  Virginia  farm, 
the  thin  red  soil  showing  here  and  there 
through  the  ragged  and  scanty  turf?  and  what, 
on  the  other  hand,  can  please  the  eye  of  a  coun- 
tryman more  than  the  unbroken  verdancy  and 
fertility  of  a  Kentucky  blue-grass  farm?  I 
find  I  am  Yery  apt  to  take  a  farmer's  view  of  a 


A   TASTE    OF    KENTUCKY    BLUE-GRASS     223 

country.      That  long  line  of  toiling  and  thrifty 
yoemen  back  of  me  seems  to  have  bequeathed 
something  to  my  blood  that  makes  me  respond 
very  quickly  to  a  fertile   and   well-kept  land- 
scape, and  that,  on  the  other  hand,  makes  me 
equally   discontented    in    a    poor,    shabby  one. 
All  the  way  from  Washington  till  I  struck  the 
heart  of  Kentucky,  the  farmer  in  me  was  un- 
happy; he  saw  hardly  a  rood  of  land  that  he 
would  like  to  call  his  own.      But  that  remnant 
of  the  wild  man  of  tlie  woods,  which  most  of 
us  still  carry,    saw  much    that  delighted  him, 
especially    down    the    New    Eiver,    where    the 
rocks  and  the  waters,  and  the  steep  forest- clad 
mountains  were  as  wild  and  as  savage  as  any- 
thing he  had   known  in   his   early   Darwinian 
ages.      But  when  we  emerged  upon  the  banks 
of  the  Great  Kanawha,  the  man  of  the  woods 
lost  his  interest  and  the  man  of  the  fields  saw 
little  that  was  comforting. 

When  we  cross  the  line  into  Kentucky,  I 
said,  we  shall  see  a  change.  But  no,  we  did 
not.  The  farmer  still  groaned  in  spirit;  no 
thrifty  farms,  no  substantial  homes,  no  neat 
villages,  no  good  roads  anywhere,  but  squalor 
and  sterility  on  every  hand.  Nearly  all  the 
afternoon  we  rode  through  a  country  like  the 
poorer  parts  of  New  England,  unredeemed  by 
anything  like  New  England  thrift.  It  was  a 
country  of  coal,  a  very  new  country,  geologi- 
cally speaking,  and  the  top-soil  did  not  seem  to 
have  had  time  to  become  deepened  and  enriched 
by    vegetable    mould.        Near    sundown,    as  I 


224     A   TASTE   OF   KEXTUGKY    BLUE-GRASS 

glanced  out  of  the  window,  I  thought  I  began  to 
see  a  change.    Presently  I  was  very  sure  I  did. 
It  began  to  appear  in  the  more  grassy  character 
of  the  woods.      Then  I  caught  sight  of  pecu- 
liarly soft  and  uniform  grassy  patches  here  and 
there  in  the  open.      Then   in  a  few  moments 
more  the  train  had  shot  us  fairly  into  the  edge 
of  the  blue-grass  region,  and  the  farmer  in  me 
♦  began  to  be  on  the  alert.      We  had  passed  in  a 
twinkling  from  a  portion  of  the  earth's  surface 
which  is  new,  which  is  of  yesterday,  to  a  por- 
tion which  is  of  the  oldest,  from  the  carboni- 
ferous to  the  lower  silurian.      Here,  upon  this 
lower  Silurian,  the  earth  that  saw  and  nourished 
the   great   monsters   and   dragons  was  growing 
the  delicate  blue- grass.      It  had  taken  all  these 
millions  upon  millions  of  years  to  prepare  the 
way  for  this  little  plant  to  grow  to  perfection. 
I  thought  I  had  never  seen  fields  and  low  hills 
look  so  soft  in  the  twilight;  they  seemed  clad 
in   greenish-gray   fur.      As   we    neared    Mount 
Sterling,  how  fat  and  smooth  the  land  looked; 
what  long,    even,   gently  flowing  lines   against 
the  fading  western  sky,  broken  here  and  there 
by  herds  of  slowly  grazing  or  else  reposing  and 
ruminating  cattle!     What  peace  and  plenty  it 
suggested!      From  a  land  raw  and   crude  and 
bitter  like  unripe  fruit,  we  had  suddenly  been 
transported  into  the  midst  of  one  ripe  and  mel- 
low with  the  fullness  of  time.      It  was  sweet 
to  look  upon.      I  was  seized  with  a  strong  de- 
sire to  go  forth  and  taste  it  by  a  stroll  through 
it  in  the  twilight. 


A   TASTE    OF    KENTUCKY    BLUE-GRASS     225 

In  the  course  of  the  ten  days  that  followed, 
the  last  ten  days  of  May,  I  had  an  opportunity 
to  taste  it  pretty  well,  and  my  mind  has  had  a 
grassy  flavor  ever  since.  I  had  an  opportunity 
to  see  this  restless  and  fitful  American  nature 
of  ours  in  a  more  equable  and  beneficent  mood 
than  I  had  ever  before  seen  it  in ;  all  its  savage- 
ness  and  acridness  gone,  no  thought  now  but 
submission  to  the  hand  and  wants  of  man.  I 
afterward  saw  the  prairies  of  Illinois,  and  the 
vast  level  stretches  of  farming  country  of  north- 
ern Ohio  and  Indiana,  but  these  lands  were  no- 
where quite  so  human,  quite  so  beautiful,  or 
quite  so  productive  as  the  blue-grass  region. 
One  likes  to  see  the  earth's  surface  lifted  up  and 
undulating  a  little,  as  if  it  heaved  and  swelled 
with  emotion;  it  suggests  more  life,  and  at  the 
same  time  that  the  sense  of  repose  is  greater. 
There  is  no  repose  in  a  prairie ;  it  is  stagnation, 
it  is  a  dead  level.  Those  immense  stretches  of 
flat  land  pain  the  eye,  as  if  all  life  and  expres- 
sion had  gone  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 
There  is  just  unevenness  enough  in  the  blue- 
grass  region  to  give  mobility  and  variety  to  the 
landscape.  From  almost  any  given  point  one 
commands  broad  and  extensive  views  —  immense 
fields  of  wheat  or  barley,  or  corn  or  hemp,  or 
grass  or  clover,  or  of  woodland  pastures. 

With  Professor  Proctor  I  drove  a  hundred 
miles  or  more  about  the  country  in  a  buggy. 
First  from  Frankfort  to  Versailles,  the  capital  of 
Woodford  County ;  then  to  Lexington,  where  we 
passed  a  couple  of  days  with  Major  McDowell 


226     A   TASTE   OF    KENTUCKY    BLUE-GRASS 

at  Ashland,   the  old  Henry  Clay  place;    then 
to  Georgetown  in  Scott  County ;  thence  back  to 
Frankfort  again.      The  following  week  I  passed 
three  days  on  the  great  ctock  farm  of  Colonel 
Alexander,  where  I  saw  more  and  finer  blooded 
stock  in  the  way  of  horses,   cattle,   and  sheep 
than  I  had  ever  seen  before.      From  thence  we 
went    south    to    Colonel    Shelby's,    where    we 
passed  a  couple  of  days  on  the  extreme  edge  of 
the  blue-grass  circle  in   Boyle  County.      Here 
we  strike  the  rim  of  sharp  low  hills  that  run 
quite  around  this  garden  of  the  State,  from  the 
Ohio  Eiver  on  the  west  to  the  Ohio  again  on 
the  north  and  east.      Kentucky  is  a  great  coun- 
try for  licks;  there  are  any  number  of  streams 
and  springs  that  bear  the  name  of  some  lick. 
Probably  the  soil  of  no  State  in  the  Union  has 
been  so  much  licked  and  smacked  over  as  that 
of  Kentucky.      Colonel  Shelby's  farm  is  near 
a  stream  called  Knob  Lick,  and  within  a  few 
miles  of  a  place  called  Blue  Lick.      I  expected 
to  see  some  sort  of  salt  spring  where  the  buffalo 
and  deer  used  to  come  to  lick;  but  instead  of 
that  saw  a  raw,  naked  spot  of  earth,  an  acre  or 
two  in  extent,  which  had  apparently  been  licked 
into  the  shape  of  a  clay  model  of  some  scene  in 
Colorado  or  the  Eocky  Mountains.      There  were 
gullies  and  chasms  and  sharp  knobs  and  peaks 
as  blue  and  barren  as  could  be,  and  no  sign  of 
a  spring  or  of  water  visible.      The  buffalo  had 
licked  the  clay  for  the  saline  matter  it  held, 
and  had  certainly  made  a  deep  and  lasting  im- 
pression. 


A   TASTE    OF   KENTUCKY-BLUE    GRASS     227 

From   Shelby  City   we   went  west    sixty  or 
more  miles,    skirting  the   blue-grass  region,    to 
Lebanon  Junction,  where  I  took  the  train  for 
Cave  City.      The  blue-grass  region  is  as  large 
as  the  State  of  Massachusetts,   and  is,  on  the 
whole,  the  finest  bit  of  the  earth's  surface,  with 
the  exception  of  parts  of  England,  I  have  yet 
seen.      In   one   way   it   is   more   pleasing  than 
anything  one  sees  in  England,  on  account  of  the 
greater  sense  of  freedom  and  roominess  which  it 
gives  one.      Everything  is  on  a  large,  generous 
scale.      The  fields  are  not  so  cut  up,   nor  the 
roadways  so  narrow,  nor  the  fences  so  prohibi- 
tory.     Indeed,    the    distinguishing    feature    of 
this  country  is  its  breadth:   one  sees  fields  of 
corn  or  wheat  or  clover  of  from   fifty  to  one 
hundred   acres  each.      At  Colonel  Alexander's 
I  saw  three  fields  of  clover    lying  side  by  side 
which    contained    three  hundred  acres  :   as  the 
clover  was  just  in  full  bloom,  the  sight  was  a 
very  pleasing  one.      The  farms  are  larger,  rang- 
ing from  several  hundred  to  several  thousand 
acres.      The  farmhouses  are  larger,   with  wide 
doors,  broad  halls,  high  ceilings,  ample  grounds, 
and   hospitality   to   match.      There   is   nothing 
niggardly  or  small    in  the   people  or  in  their 
country.      One  sees  none  of  the  New  York  or 
New  England  primness  and  trimness,  but  the 
ample,    flowing   Southern   way  of    life.      It    is 
common  to  see  horses  and  cattle  grazing  in  the 
grounds  immediately  about  the  house;  there  is 
nothing  but  grass,    and  the  great  forest  trees, 
which    they    cannot     hurt.       The    farmhouses 


228     A  TASTE   OF   KENTUCKY   BLUE-GKASS 

rarely  stand  near  the  highway,  but  are  set  after 
the  English  fashion,  from  a  third  to  half  a  mile 
distant,  amid  a  grove  of  primitive  forest  trees, 
and  flanked  or  backed  up  by  the  many  lesser 
buildings  that  the  times  of  slavery  made  neces- 
sary.     Educated  gentlemen  farmers  are  proba- 
bly the  rule  more  than  in  the  North.      There 
are  not  so  many  small  or  so  many  leased  farms. 
The  proprietors  are  men  of  means,    and  come 
the  nearest  to  forming  a  landed  gentry  of  any 
class  of  men  we  have  in  this  country.      They 
are  not  city  men  running  a  brief  and  rapid  ca- 
reer on  a  fancy  farm,  but  genuine  countrymen, 
who  love  the  land  and  mean  to  keep  it.      I  re- 
member   with    pleasure    one    rosy-faced   young 
farmer,    whose    place    we   casually   invaded    in 
Lincoln  County.      He  was  a  graduate  of  Har- 
vard University  and  of  the  law  school,  but  here 
he  was  with  his  trousers  tucked  into  his  boot- 
legs, helping  to  cultivate  his  corn,  or  looking 
after  his  herds  upon  his  broad  acres.      He  was 
nearly   the  ideal  of  a  simple,  hearty,  educated 
country  farmer  and  gentleman. 

But  the  feature  of  this  part  of  Kentucky 
which  struck  me  the  most  forcibly,  and  which 
is  perhaps  the  most  unique,  are  the  immense 
sylvan  or  woodland  pastures.  The  forests  are 
simply  vast  grassy  orchards  of  maple  and  oak, 
or  other  trees,  where  the  herds  graze  and  repose. 
They  everywhere  give  a  look  to  the  land  as  of 
royal  parks  and  commons.  They  are  as  clean 
as  a  meadow  and  as  inviting  as  long,  grassy 
vistas  and  circles  of  cool  shade  can  make  them. 


A   TASTE    OF    KENTUCKY    BLUE-GRASS     229 

All  the  saplings  and  bushy  imdergrowths  com- 
mon to  forests  have  been  removed,  leaving  only 
the  large  trees  scattered  here  and  there,  which 
seem  to  protect  rather  than  occupy  the  ground 
Such  a  look  of  leisure,  of  freedom,  of  ampli- 
tude,  as  these  forest  groves  give  to  the  land- 
scape ! 

What  vistas,  "vvhat  aisles,  what  retreats,  what 
depths  of  sunshine  and  shadow !  The  grass  is 
as  uniform  as  a  carpet,  and  grows  quite  up  to 
the  boles  of  the  trees.  One  peculiarity  of  the 
blue-grass  is  that  it  takes  complete  possession 
of  the  soil;  it  suffers  no  rival;  it  is  as  uniform 
as  a  fall  of  snow.  Only  one  weed  seems  to 
hold  its  own  against  it,  and  that  is  ironweed,  a 
plant  like  a  robust  purple  aster  five  or  six  feet 
high.  This  is  Kentucky's  one  weed,  so  far  as 
I  saw.  It  was  low  and  inconspicuous  while  I 
was  there,  but  before  fall  it  gets  tall  and  rank, 
and  its  masses  of  purple  flowers  make  a  very 
striking  spectacle.  Through  these  forest  glades 
roam  the  herds  of  cattle  or  horses.  I  know  no 
prettier  sight  than  a  troop  of  blooded  mares 
with  their  colts  slowly  grazing  through  these 
stately  aisles,  some  of  them  in  sunshine,  and 
some  in  shadow.  In  riding  along  the  highway 
there  was  hardly  an  hour  when  such  a  scene 
was  not  in  view.  Very  often  the  great  farm- 
house stands  amid  one  of  these  open  forests 
and  is  approached  by  a  graveled  road  that  winds 
amid  the  trees.  At  Colonel  Alexander's  the 
cottage  of  his  foreman,  as  well  as  many  of  tlie 
tarm  buildings  and  stables,  stands  in  a  grassy 


230     A  TASTE   OF   KENTUCKY  BLUE-GRASS 

forest,  and  the  mares  with  their  colts  roam  far 
and  wide.  Sometimes  when  they  were  going 
for  water,  or  were  being  started  in  for  the  night, 
they  would  come  charging  along  like  the  wind, 
and  what  a  pleasing  sight  it  was  to  see  their 
glossy  coats  glancing  adown  the  long  sun-flecked 
vistas!  Sometimes  the  more  open  of  these 
forest  lands  are  tilled ;  I  saw  fine  crops  of  hemp 
growing  on  them,  and  in  one  or  two  cases  corn. 
But  where  the  land  has  never  been  under  cul  • 
tivation  it  is  remarkably  smooth  —  one  can  drive 
with  a  buggy  with  perfect  ease  and  freedom 
anywhere  through  these  woods.  The  ground  is 
as  smooth  as  if  it  had  been  rolled.  In  Ken- 
tucky we  are  beyond  the  southern  limit  of  the 
glacial  drift;  there  are  no  surface  boulders  and 
no  abrupt  knolls  or  gravel  banks.  Another 
feature  which  shows  how  gentle  and  uniform 
the  forces  which  have  moulded  this  land  have 
been  are  the  beautiful  depressions  which  go  by 
the  ugly  name  of  "sink-holes."  They  are 
broad  turf-lined  bowls  sunk  in  the  surface  here 
and  there,  and  as  smooth  and  symmetrical  as  if 
they  had  been  turned  out  by  a  lathe.  Those 
about  the  woodlands  of  Colonel  Alexander  were 
from  one  to  two  hundred  feet  across  and  fifteen 
or  twenty  feet  deep.  The  green  turf  sweeps 
down  into  them  without  a  break,  and  the  great 
trees  grow  from  their  sides  and  bottoms  the 
same  as  elsewhere.  They  look  as  if  they  might 
have  been  carved  out  by  the  action  of  whirling 
water,  but  are  probably  the  result  of  the  surface 
water  seeking  a  hidden  channel  in  the  under- 


A  TASTE   OF   KENTUCKY   BLUE-GRASS     231 

lying  rock,  and  thus  slowly  carrying  away  the 
soil  with  it.      They  all  still  have  underground 
drainage   through    the   bottom.      By  reason   of 
these  depressions  this  part  of  the  State  has  been 
called   "goose-nest  land,"  their  shape  suggest- 
ing the  nests  of  immense  geese.      On  my  way 
southward    to   the    Mammoth    Cave,    over   the 
formation  known  as  the  subcarboniferous,  they 
formed  the  most  noticeable  feature  of  the  land- 
scape.     An  immense  flock  of  geese  had  nested 
here,  so  that  in  places  the  rims  of  their  nests 
touched  one  another.      As  you  near  the  great 
cave  you  see  a  mammoth   depression,   nothing 
less  than  a  broad,  oval  valley  which  holds  entire 
farms,    and  which  has  no  outlet  save  through 
the    bottom.       In    England    these     depressions 
would  be  called  punch- bowls;  and  though  they 
know  well  in  Kentucky  what  punch  is  made 
of,  and  can  furnish  the  main  ingredient  of  su- 
perb quality,  and  in  quantity  that  would  quite 
fill  some  of  these  grassy  basins,  yet  I  do  not 
know  that  they  apply  this  term  to  them.      But 
in  the  good  old  times  before  the  war,  when  the 
spirit  of  politics  ran  much    higher  than  now, 
these  punch-bowls  and  the  forests  about  them 
were  the  frequent  scenes  of  happy  and  convi- 
vial   gatherings.      Under    the    great    trees    the 
political  orators  held  forth ;  a  whole  ox  Avould 
be  roasted  to  feed  the  hungry  crowd,  and  some- 
thing stronger  than  punch  flowed  freely.      One 
farmer  showed  us  in  our  walk  where  Crittenden 
and  Breckinridge  had  frequently  held  forth,  but 
the  grass  had  long  been  growing  over  the  ashes 
where  the  ox  had  been  roasted. 


232     A   TASTE    OF   KENTUCKY    BLUE-GRASS 

What  a  land  for  picnics  and  open-air  meet- 
ings! The  look  of  it  suggested  something 
more  large  and  leisurely  than  the  stress  and 
hurry  of  our  American  life.  What  was  there 
about  it  that  made  me  think  of  Walter  Scott 
and  the  age  of  romance  and  chivalry?  and  of 
Eobin  Hood  and  his  adventurous  band  under 
the  greenwood  tree?  Probably  it  was  those 
stately,  open  forests,  with  their  clear,  grassy 
vistas  where  a  tournament  might  be  held,  and 
those  superb  breeds  of  horses  wandering  through 
them  upon  which  it  was  so  easy  to  fancy 
knights  and  ladies  riding.  The  land  has  not 
the  mellow,  time-enriched  look  of  England;  it 
could  not  have  it  under  our  harder,  fiercer 
climate;  but  it  has  a  sense  of  breadth  and  a 
roominess  which  one  never  sees  in  England  ex- 
cept in  the  great  royal  parks. 

The  fences  are  mainly  posts  and  rails,  which 
fall  a  little  short  of  giving  the  look  of  perma- 
nence which  a  hedge  or  a  wall  and  dike  afford. 

The  Kentuckians  have  an  unhandsome  way 
of  treating  their  forests  when  they  want  to  get 
rid  of  them ;  they  girdle  the  trees  and  let  them 
die,  instead  of  cutting  them  down  at  once.  A 
girdled  tree  dies  hard ;  the  struggle  is  painful 
to  look  upon;  inch  by  inch,  leaf  by  leaf,  it 
yields,  and  the  agony  is  protracted  nearly 
through  the  whole  season.  The  land  looked 
accursed  when  its  noble  trees  were  all  dying 
or  had  died,  as  if  smitten  by  a  plague.  One 
hardly  expected  to  see  grass  or  grain  growing 
upon  it.      The  girdled  trees    stand    for  years, 


A   TASTE   OF   KENTUCKY   BLUE-GRASS     233 

their  gaunt  skeletons  "blistering  in  the  sun  or 
blackening  in  the  rain.  Through  southern  In- 
diana and  Illinois  I  noticed  this  same  lazy, 
ugly  custom  of  getting  rid  of  the  trees. 

The  most  noticeable  want  of  the  blue-grass 
region  is  water.  The  streams  bore  under- 
ground through  the  limestone  rock  so  readily 
that  they  rarely  come  to  the  surface.  With 
plenty  of  sparkling  streams  and  rivers  like  New 
England,  it  would  indeed  be  a  land  of  infinite 
attractions.  The  most  unsightly  feature  the 
country  afforded  was  the  numerous  shallow 
basins,  scooped  out  of  the  soil  and  filled  with 
stagnant  water,  where  the  flocks  and  herds 
drank.  These,  with  the  girdled  trees,  were 
about  the  only  things  the  landscape  presented 
to  which  the  eye  did  not  turn  with  plea- 
sure. Yet  when  one  does  chance  upon  a  spring, 
it  is  apt  to  be  a  strikingly  beautiful  one. 
The  limestone  rock,  draped  with  dark,  dripping 
moss,  opens  a  cavernous  mouth  from  which  in 
most  instances  a  considerable  stream  flows.  I 
saw  three  or  four  such  springs,  about  which  one 
wanted  to  linger  long.  The  largest  was  at 
Georgetown,  where  a  stream  ten  or  twelve  feet 
broad  and  three  or  four  feet  deep  came  gliding 
from  a  cavernous  cliff  without  a  ripple.  It  is 
situated  in  the  very  edge  of  the  town,  and  could 
easily  be  made  a  feature  singidarly  attractive. 
As  we  approached  its  head,  a  little  colored  girl 
rose  up  from  its  brink  with  a  pail  of  water.  I 
asked  her  name.  "Venus,  sir;  Venus."  It 
was  the  nearest  I  had  ever  come  to  seeing 
Venus  rising  from  the  foam. 


234     A   TASTE   OF   KENTUCKY   BLUE-GRASS 

There  are  three  hard  things  in  Kentucky, 
only  one  of  which  is  to  my  taste ;  namely,  hard 
bread,  hard  beds,  and  hard  roads.  The  roads 
are  excellent,  macadamized  as  in  England,  and 
nearly  as  well  kept;  but  that  "beat-biscuit,"  a 
sort  of  domestic  hardtack,  in  the  making  of 
which  the  flour  or  dough  is  beaten  long  and 
hard  with  the  rolling-pin,  is,  in  my  opinion,  a 
poor  substitute  for  Yankee  bread;  and  those 
mercilessly  hard  beds  —  the  macadamizing  prin- 
ciple is  out  of  place  there  too.  It  would  not 
be  exact  to  call  Kentucky  butter  bad;  but  with 
all  their  fine  grass  and  fancy  stock,  they  do  not 
succeed  well  in  this  article  of  domestic  manu- 
facture. But  Kentucky  whiskey  is  soft,  se- 
ductively so,  and  I  caution  all  travelers  to  be- 
ware how  they  suck  any  iced  preparation  of  it 
through  a  straw  of  a  hot  day ;  it  is  not  half  so 
innocent  as  it  tastes. 

The  blue-grass  region  has  sent  out,  and  con- 
tinues to  send  out,  the  most  famous  trotting 
horses  in  the  world.  Within  a  small  circle  not 
half  a  dozen  miles  across  were  produced  all  the 
more  celebrated  horses  of  the  past  ten  years; 
but  it  has  as  yet  done  nothing  of  equal  excellence 
in  the  way  of  men.  I  could  but  ask  myself 
why  this  ripe  and  mellow  geology,  this  stately 
and  bountiful  landscape,  these  large  and  sub- 
stantial homesteads,  have  not  yet  produced  a 
crop  of  men  to  match.  Cold  and  sterile  Mas- 
sachusetts is  far  in  the  lead  in  this  respect. 
Granite  seems  a  better  nurse  of  genius  than  the 
lime- rock.      The  one  great  man  born  in  Ken- 


A   TASTE   OF    KENTUCKY    BLUE-GRASS     235 

tucky,  Abraham  Lincoln,  was  not  a  product  of 
this  fertile  region.  Henry  Clay  was  a  Virgin- 
ian. The  two  most  eminent  native  blue-grass 
men  were  John  C.  Breckinridge  and  John  J. 
Crittenden.  It  seems  that  it  takes  something 
more  than  a  fertile  soil  to  produce  great  men; 
a  deep  and  rich  humo.n  soil  is  much  more  im- 
portant. Kentucky  has  been  too  far  to  one 
side  of  the  main  current  of  our  national  life; 
she  has  felt  the  influence  of  New  England  but 
very  little ;  neither  has  she  been  aroused  by  the 
stir  and  enterprise  of  the  great  West.  Her 
schoolhouses  are  too  far  apart,  even  in  this  rich 
section,  and  she  values  a  fast  trotter  or  racer 
more  than  she  does  a  line  scholar. 

What  gives  the  great  fertility  to  the  blue- 
grass  region  is  the  old  limestone  rock,  laid 
down  in  the  ancient  silurian  seas,  which  comes 
to  the  surface  over  all  this  part  of  the  State  and 
makes  the  soil  by  its  disintegration.  The  earth 
surface  seems  once  to  have  bulged  up  here  like 
a  great  bubble,  and  then  have  been  planed  or 
ground  off  by  the  elements.  This  wearing 
away  process  removed  all  the  more  recent  for- 
mations, the  coal  beds  and  the  conglomerate  or 
other  rocks  beneath  them,  and  left  this  ancient 
limestone  exposed.  Its  continued  decay  keeps 
up  the  fertility  of  the  soil.  AYheat  and  corn 
and  clover  are  rotated  for  fifty  years  upon  the 
same  fields  without  manure,  and  without  any 
falling  off  in  their  productiveness.  Where  the 
soil  is  removed,  the  rock  presents  that  rough, 
honeycombed  appearance  which  surfaces  do  that 


236     A   TASTE    OF   KENTUCKY   BLUE-GEASS 

have  been  worm-eaten  instead  of  worn.  The 
tooth  which  has  gnawed,  and  is  still  gnawing 
it,  is  the  carbonic  acid  carried  into  the  earth  by- 
rain-water.  Hence,  unlike  the  prairies  of  the 
West,  the  fertility  of  this  soil  perpetually  renews 
itself.  The  blue-grass  seems  native  to  this  re- 
gion; any  field  left  to  itself  will  presently  be 
covered  with  blue-grass.  It  is  not  cut  for  hay, 
but  is  for  grazing  alone.  Fields  which  have 
been  protected  during  the  fall  yield  good  pas- 
turage even  in  winter.  And  a  Kentucky  win- 
ter is  no  light  affair,  the  mercury  often  falling 
fifteen  or  twenty  degrees  below  zero. 

I  saw  but  one  new  bird  in  Kentucky,  namely, 
the  lark-finch,  and  but  one  pair  of  those.  This 
is  a  Western  bird  of  the  sparrow  kind  which  is 
slowly  making  its  way  eastward,  having  been 
found  as  far  east  as  Long  Island.  I  was  daily 
on  the  lookout  for  it,  but  saw  none  till  I  Avas 
about  leaving  this  part  of  the  State.  Near  old 
Governor  Shelby's  place  in  Boyle  County,  as 
we  were  driving  along  the  road,  my  eye  caught 
a  grayish-brown  bird  like  the  skylark,  but  with 
a  much  more  broad  and  beautifully  marked  tail. 
It  suggested  both  a  lark  and  a  sparrow,  and  I 
knew  at  once  it  was  the  lark-finch  I  had  been 
looking  for.  It  alighted  on  some  low  object  in 
a  ploughed  field,  and  with  a  glass  I  had  a  good 
view  of  it  —  a  very  elegant,  distinguished-ap- 
pearing bird  for  one  clad  in  the  sparrow  suit,  the 
tail  large  and  dark,  with  white  markings  on  the 
outer  web  of  the  quills.  Much  as  I  wanted  to 
hear  his  voice,  he  would  not  sing,  and  it  was 


A    TASTE    OF    KENTUCKY    BLUE-GRASS      237 

not  till  I  reached  Adams  County,  Illinois,  that 
I  saw  another  one  and  heard  the  song.  Dn/ing 
about  the  country  here  —  which,  by  the  way, 
reminded  me  more  of  the  blue-grass  region  than 
anything  I  saw  outside  of  Kentucky  —  with  a 
friend,  I  was  again  on  the  lookout  for  the  new 
bird,  but  had  begun  to  think  it  was  not  a  resi- 
dent, when  I  espied  one  on  the  fence  by  the 
roadside.  It  failed  to  sing,  but  farther  on  we 
saw  another  one  which  alighted  upon  a  fruit 
tree  near  us.  We  paused  to  look  and  to  listen, 
when  instantly  it  struck  up  and  gave  us  a  good 
sample  of  its  musical  ability.  It  was  both  a 
lark  and  a  sparrow  song;  or,  rather,  the  notes 
of  a  sparrow  uttered  in  the  continuous  and  rapid 
manner  of  the  skylark  — a  pleasing  perform- 
ance, but  not  meriting  the  praise  I  had  heard 
bestowed  upon  it. 

In  Kentucky  and  Illinois,  and  probably 
throughout  the  West  and  Southwest,  certain 
birds  come  to  the  front  and  are  conspicuous 
which  we  see  much  less  of  in  the  East.  The 
blue  jay  seems  to  be  a  garden  and  orchard  bird,  . 
and  to  build  about  dwellings  as  familiarly  as 
the  robin  does  with  us.  There  must  be  dozens 
of  these  birds  in  this  part  of  the  country  where 
there  is  but  one  in  New  England.  And  the 
brown  thrashers  —  in  Illinois  they  were  as  com- 
mon along  the  highways  as  song  sparrows  or 
chippies  are  with  us,  and  nearly  as  familiar. 
So  also  were  the  turtle-doves  and  meadow-larks. 
That  the  Western  birds  should  be  more  tame 
and  familiar  than  the  same  species  in  the  East 


238     A   TASTE   OF    KENTUCKY    BLUE-GRASS 

is  curious  enough.  From  the  semi- domestica- 
tion of  so  many  of  the  English  birds,  when 
compared  with  our  own,  we  infer  that  the  older 
the  country,  the  more  the  birds  are  changed  in 
this  respect;  yet  the  birds  of  the  Mississippi 
Valley  are  less  afraid  of  man  than  those  of  the 
valley  of  the  Hudson  or  the  Connecticut.  Is  it 
because  the  homestead,  with  its  trees  and  build- 
ings, affords  the  birds  on  the  great  treeless  prai- 
ries their  first  and  almost  only  covert  ?  Where 
could  the  perchers  perch  till  trees  and  fences 
and  buildings  offered?  For  this  reason  they 
would  at  once  seek  the  vicinity  of  man  and  be- 
come familiar  with  him. 

In  Kentucky  the  summer  redbird  everywhere 
attracted  my  attention.  Its  song  is  much  like 
that  of  its  relative  the  tanager,  and  its  general 
habits  and  manners  are  nearly  the  same. 

The  oriole  is  as  common  in  Kentucky  as  in 
New  York  or  New  England.  One  day  we  saw 
one  weave  into  her  nest  unusual  material. 
As  we  sat  upon  the  lawn  in  front  of  the  cot- 
tage, we  had  noticed  the  bird  just  beginning 
her  structure,  suspending  it  from  a  long,  low 
branch  of  the  Kentucky  coffee- tree  that  grew 
but  a  few  feet  away.  I  suggested  to  my  host 
that  if  he  would  take  some  brilliant  yarn  and 
scatter  it  about  upon  the  shrubbery,  the  fence, 
and  the  walks,  the  bird  would  probably  avail 
herself  of  it,  and  weave  a  novel  nest.  I  had 
heard  of  it  being  done,  but  had  never  tried  it 
myself.  The  suggestion  was  at  once  acted  upon 
and  in  a  few  moments  a  handful  of  zephyr  yarn, 


A   TASTE    OF    KENTUCKY    BLUE-GRASS     239 

crimson,  orange,  green,  yellow,  and  blue,  was 
distributed  about  the  grounds.  As  we  sat  at 
dinner  a  few  moments  later  I  saw  the  eager  bird 
flying  up  toward  her  nest  with  one  of  these 
brilliant  yarns  streaming  behind  her.  They 
had  caught  her  eye  at  once,  and  she  fell  to 
work  upon  them  with  a  will;  not  a  bit  daunted 
by  their  brilliant  color,  she  soon  had  a  crim- 
son spot  there  amid  the  green  leaves.  She  af- 
forded us  rare  amusement  all  the  afternoon 
and  the  next  morning.  How  she  seemed  to 
congratulate  herself  over  her  rare  find!  How 
vigorously  she  knotted  those  strings  to  her 
branch  and  gathered  the  ends  in  and  sewed 
them  through  and  through  the  structure,  jerk- 
ing them  spitefully  like  a  housewife  burdened 
with  many  cares!  How  savagely  she  would  fly 
at  her  neighbor,  an  oriole  that  had  a  nest  just 
over  the  fence  a  few  yards  away,  when  she  in- 
vaded her  territory!  The  male  looked  on  ap- 
provingly, but  did  not  ofl'er  to  lend  a  hand. 
There  is  something  in  the  manner  of  the  female 
on  such  occasions,  something  so  decisive  and 
emphatic,  that  one  entirely  approves  of  the 
course  of  the  male  in  not  meddling  or  ofl'ering 
any  suggestions.  It  is  the  wife's  enterprise,  and 
she  evidently  knows  her  own  mind  so  well  that 
the  husband  keeps  aloof,  or  plays  the  part  of 
an  approving  spectator. 

The  woolen  yarn  was  ill-suited  to  the  Ken- 
tucky climate.  This  fact  the  bird  seemed  to 
appreciate,  for  she  used  it  only  in  the  upper 
part  of  her  nest,  in  attaching  it  to  the  branch 


240     A   TASTE    OF    KENTUCKY    BLUE-GKASS 

and  in  binding  and  compacting  the  rim,  making 
the  sides  and  bottom  of  hemp,  leaving  it  thin 
and  airy,  much  more  so  than  are  the  same  nests 
with  us.      No  other  bird  would,  perhaps,  have 
used  such  brilliant   material;  their  instincts  of 
concealment  would  have  revolted,  but  the  oriole 
aims  more  to  make  its  nest  inaccessible  than  to 
hide  it.     Its  position  and  depth  insure  its  safety. 
The  red-headed   woodpecker  was    about  the 
only  bird  of  this  class  I  saw,  and  it  was  very 
common.      Almost  any  moment,  in  riding  along, 
their  conspicuous  white  markings  as  they  flew 
from  tree  to  tree  were  to  be  seen  festooning  the 
woods.      Yet  I  was  told  that  they  were  far  less 
numerous  than  formerly.      Governor  Knott  said 
he  believed  there  were  ten  times  as  many  when 
he  was  a    boy  as    now.      But    what    beautiful 
thing  is  there  in  this  world  that  was  not  ten 
times  more  abundant  when  one  was  a  boy  than 
he  finds  it  on  becoming  a  man?     Youth  is  the 
principal  factor  in  the  problem.      If  one  could 
only   have  the   leisure,    the  alertness,    and  the 
freedom  from  care  that  he  had  when  a  boy,  he 
Avould  probably  find  that  the  world  had  not  de- 
teriorated so  much  as  he  is  apt  to  suspect. 

The  field  or  meadow  bird,  everywhere  heard 
in  Kentucky  and  Illinois,  is  the  black- throated 
bunting,  a  heavy-beaked  bird  the  size  and  color 
of  an  English  sparrow,  with  a  harsh,  rasping 
song,  which  it  indulges  in  incessantly.  Among 
bird-songs  it  is  like  a  rather  coarse  weed  among 
our  wild-flowers. 

I  could  not  find  the   mocking-bird  in  song, 


A    TASTE    OF    KENTUCKY    BLUE-GRASS      241 

though  it  breeds  in  the  bkie-grass  counties.  I 
saw  only  two  specimens  of  the  bird  in  all  my 
wanderings.  The  Virginia  cardinal  Avas  com- 
mon, and  in  places  the  yellow-breasted  chat  was 
lieard.  Once  I  heard  from  across  a  broad  field 
a  burst  of  bobolink  melody  from  a  score  or  more 
of  throats  —  a  flock  of  the  birds  probably  paus- 
ing on  their  way  north.  In  Chicago  I  was  told 
that  the  Illinois  bobolink  had  a  different  song 
from  the  New  England  species,  but  I  could  de- 
tect no  essential  difference.  The  song  of  cer- 
tain birds,  notably  that  of  the  bobolink,  seems 
to  vary  slightly  in  different  localities,  and  also 
to  change  during  a  series  of  years.  I  no  longer 
hear  the  exact  bobolink  song  which  I  heard  in 
my  boyhood,  in  the  localities  where  I  then 
heard  it.  Not  a  season  passes  but  I  hear  marked 
departures  in  the  songs  of  our  birds  from  what 
appears  to  be  the  standard  song  of  a  given  species. 


IN   MAMMOTH   CAVE 

Some  idea  of  the  impression  which  Mammoth 
Cave  makes  upon  the  senses,  irrespective  even 
of  sight,  may  be  had  from  the  fact  that  blind 
people  go  there  to  see  it,  and  are  greatly  struck 
with  it.  I  was  assured  that  this  is  a  fact. 
The  blind  seem  as  much  impressed  by  it  as 
those  who  have  their  sight.  When  the  guide 
pauses  at  the  more  interesting  point,  or  lights 
the  scene  up  with  a  great  torch  or  with  Bengal 
lights,  and  points  out  the  more  striking  fea- 
tures, the  blind  exclaim,  "  How  wonderful !  how 
beautiful !  "  They  can  feel  it  if  they  cannot 
see  it.  They  get  some  idea  of  the  spacious- 
ness when  words  are  uttered.  The  voice  goes 
forth  in  these  colossal  chambers  like  a  bird. 
When  no  word  is  spoken,  the  silence  is  of  a 
kind  never  experienced  on  the  surface  of  the 
earth,  it  is  so  profound  and  abysmal.  This, 
and  the  absolute  darkness,  to  a  person  with  eyes 
makes  him  feel  as  if  he  were  face  to  face  with 
the  primordial  nothingness.  The  objective 
universe  is  gone;  only  the  subjective  remains; 
the  sense  of  hearing  is  inverted,  and  reports 
only  the  murmurs  from  within.  The  blind 
miss  much,  but  much  remains  to  them.  The 
great  cave  is  not  merely  a  spectacle  to  the  eye; 


IN    MAMMOTH    CAVE  243 

it  is  a  wonder  to  the  ear,  a  strangeness  to  the 
smell  and  to  the  touch.  The  body  feels  the 
presence  of  unusual  conditions  through  every 
pore. 

For  my  part,  my  thoughts  took  a  decidedly 
sepulchral  turn ;  I  thought  of  my  dead  and  of 
all  the  dead  of  the  earth,  and  said  to  myself,  the 
darkness  and  the  silence  of  their  last  resting- 
place  is  like  this;  to  this  we  must  all  come  at 
last.  No  vicissitudes  of  earth,  no  changes  of 
seasons,  no  sound  of  storm  or  thunder  penetrate 
here;  winter  and  summer,  day  and  night,  peace 
or  war,  it  is  all  one;  a  world  beyond  the  reach 
of  change,  because  beyond  the  reach  of  life. 
What  peace,  what  repose,  what  desolation! 
The  marks  and  relics  of  the  Indian,  which  dis- 
appear so  quickly  from  the  light  of  day  above, 
are  here  beyond  the  reach  of  natural  change. 
The  imprint  of  his  moccasin  in  the  dust  might 
remain  undisturbed  for  a  thousand  years.  At 
one  point  the  guide  reaches  his  arm  beneath  the 
rocks  that  strew  the  floor  and  pulls  out  the 
burnt  ends  of  canes  used,  when  probably  fdled 
with  oil  or  grease,  by  the  natives  to  light  their 
way  into  the  cave  doubtless  centuries  ago. 

Here  in  the  loose  soil  are  ruts  worn  by  cart- 
wheels in  1812,  when,  during  the  war  with 
Great  Britain,  the  earth  was  leached  to  make 
saltpetre.  The  guide  kicks  corn-cobs  out  of 
the  dust  where  the  oxen  were  fed  at  noon,  and 
they  look  nearly  as  fresh  as  ever  they  did.  In 
those  frail  corn-cobs  and  in  those  wheel  tracks 
as  if  the  carts  had   but  just    gone  along,    one 


244  IN    MAMMOTH    CAVE 

seemed  to  come  very  near  to  the  youth  of  the 
century,  almost  to  overtake  it. 

At  a  point  in  one  of  the  great  avenues,  if  you 
stop  and  listen,  you  hear  a  slow,  solemn  ticking 
like  a  great  clock  in  a  deserted  hall;  you  hear 
the  slight  echo  as  it  fathoms  and  sets  off  the 
silence.     It  is  called  the  clock,  and  is  caused  by 
a  single  large  drop  of  water  falling  every  second 
into  a  little    pool.      A   ghostly   kind  of   clock 
there  in  the  darkness,  that  is  never  wound  up 
and  that  never  runs  down.      It  seemed  like  a 
mockery  where  time  is  not,  and  change  does  not 
come  —  the  clock   of    the   dead.      This  sombre 
and  mortuary  cast  of  one's  thoughts  seems  so 
natural  in  the  great  cave,  that  I  could  well  un- 
derstand the  emotions  of  a  lady  who  visited  the 
cave  with  a  party  a  few  days  before  I  was  there. 
She  went  forward    very    reluctantly   from    the 
first;  the   silence  and  the  darkness  of  the  huge 
mausoleum  evidently  impressed  her  imagination, 
so  that  when  she  got  to  the  spot  where  the  guide 
points  out  the  "Giant's  Coffin,"  a  huge,  fallen 
rock,  which,  in  the  dim  light  takes  exactly  the 
form  of  an  enormous  cofiin,  her  fear  quite  over- 
came her,  and  she  begged  piteously  to  be  taken 
back.      Timid,    highly   imaginative   people,    es- 
pecially women,  are  quite  sure  to  have  a  sense 
of    fear    in    this    strange    underground    world. 
The  guide  told  me  of  a  lady  in  one  of  the  par- 
ties he  was  conducting  through,  who  wanted  to 
linger  behind  a  little  all  alone ;  he  suffered  her 
to  do  so,  but  presently  heard  a  piercing  scream. 
Rushing  back  he  found  her  lying  prone  upon 


IN   MAMMOTH    CAVE  245 

the  'ground  in  a  dead  faint.  She  had  acciden- 
tally put  out  her  lamp,  and  was  so  appalled  by 
the  darkness  that  instantly  closed  around  her 
that  she  swooned  at  once. 

Sometimes    it   seemed    to   me    as    if    I    was 
threading  the  streets  of  some  buried  city  of  the 
fore-world.      With  your  little  lantern  in  your 
hand,  you  follow  your  guide  through  those  end- 
less and  silent    avenues,    catching  glimpses  on 
either  hand  of  what  appears  to  be  some  strange 
antique  architecture,  the  hoary  and  crumbling 
walls  rising  high  up  into  the  darkness.      Now 
we  turn  a  sharp  corner,  or  turn  down  a  street 
which  crosses  our  course  at  right  angles;  now 
we    come    out  into  a  great    circle,    or  spacious 
court,  which  the  guide  lights  up  with  a  quick- 
paper     torch,    or     a     colored     chemical     light. 
There  are  streets  above  you  and  streets  below 
you.      As  this  was  a  city  where  day  never  en- 
tered, no  provision  for  light  needed  to  be  made, 
and  it  is  built  one  layer  above  another  to  the 
number  of  four  or  five,  or  on  the  plan  of  an 
enormous  ant  hill,  the  lowest  avenues  being  sev- 
eral hundred  feet  beneath  the  uppermost.      The 
main    avenue  leading  in   from  the  entrance  is 
called  the  Broadway,    and  if   Broadway,    jSTew 
York,   was  arched  over   and    reduced    to  utter 
darkness  and  silence,  and  its  roadway  blocked 
with  mounds  of  earth  and  fragments  of  rock,  it 
would    perhaps,    only   lack    that    gray,    cosmic, 
elemental  look,   to  make  it  resemble  this.      A 
mile  or  so  from  the  entrance  we  pass  a  couple 
of  rude  stone  houses,  built  forty  or  more  years 


246  IN   MAMMOTH   CAVE 

ago  by  some  consumptives,  who  hoped  to  pro- 
long their  lives  by  a  residence  in  this  pure, 
antiseptic  air.  Five  months  they  lived  here, 
poor  creatures,  a  half  dozen  of  them,  Avithout 
ever  going  forth  into  the  world  of  light.  But 
the  long  entombment  did  not  arrest  the  disease ; 
the  mountain  did  not  draw  the  virus  out,  but 
seemed  to  draw  the  strength  and  vitality  out, 
so  that  when  the  victims  did  go  forth  into  the 
light  and  air,  bleached  as  white  as  chalk,  they 
succumbed  at  once,  and  nearly  all  died  before 
they  could  reach  the  hotel,  a  few  hundred  yards 
away 

Probably  the  prettiest  thing  they  have  to 
show  you  in  Mammoth  Cave  is  the  Star  Cham- 
ber. This  seems  to  have  made  an  impression 
upon  Emerson  when  he  visited  the  cave,  for  he 
mentions  it  in  one  of  his  essays,  "Illusions." 
The  guide  takes  your  lantern  from  you  and 
leaves  you  seated  upon  a  bench  by  the  wayside, 
in  the  profound  cosmic  darkness.  He  retreats 
along  a  side  alley  that  seems  •  to  go  down  to  a 
lower  level,  and  at  a  certain  point  shades  his 
lamp  with  his  hat,  so  that  the  light  falls  upon 
the  ceiling  over  your  head.  You  look  up,  and 
the  first  thought  is  that  there  is  an  opening  just 
there  that  permits  you  to  look  forth  upon  the 
midnight  skies.  You  see  the  darker  horizon 
line  where  the  sky  ends  and  the  mountains  be- 
gin. The  sky  is  blue-black  and  is  thickly 
studded  with  stars,  rather  small  stars,  but  appar- 
ently genuine.  At  one  point  a  long,  luminous 
streak  simulates  exactly  the  form  and  effect  of  a 


IN   MAMMOTH    CAVE  247 

comet.  As  you  gaze,  the  guide  slowly  moves 
his  hat,  and  a  black  cloud  gradually  creeps  over 
the  sky,  and  all  is  blackness  again.  Then  you 
hear  footsteps  retreating  and  dying  away  in  the 
distance.  Presently  all  is  still,  save  the  ring- 
ing in  your  own  ears.  Then  after  a  few  mo- 
ments, during  which  you  have  sat  in  a  silence 
like  that  of  the  interstellar  spaces,  you  hear 
over  your  left  shoulder  a  distant  flapping  of 
wings,  followed  by  the  crowing  of  a  cock. 
You  turn  your  head  in  that  direction  and  be- 
hold a  faint  daAvn  breaking  on  the  horizon.  It 
slowly  increases  till  you  hear  footsteps  approach- 
ing, and  your  dusky  companion,  playing  the 
part  of  Apollo,  wath  lamp  in  hand  ushers  in  the 
light  of  day.  It  is  rather  theatrical,  but  a  very 
pleasant  diversion  nevertheless. 

Another  surprise  was  when  we  paused  at  a 
certain  point,  and  the  guide  asked  me  to  shout 
or  call  in  a  loud  voice.  I  did  so  without  any 
unusual  effect  following.  Then  he  spoke  in  a 
very  deep  base,  and  instantly  the  rocks  all 
about  and  beneath  us  became  like  the  strings  of 
an  ^Eolian  harp.  They  seemed  transformed  as 
if  by  enchantment.  Then  I  tried,  but  did  not 
strike  the  right  key ;  the  rocks  were  dumb ;  I 
•tried  again,  but  got  no  response;  flat  and  dead 
the  sounds  came  back  as  if  in  mockery;  then  I 
struck  a  deeper  base,  the  chord  was  hit,  and  the 
solid  Avails  seemed  to  become  as  thin  and  frail 
as  a  drum  head  or  as  the  frame  of  a  violin. 
They  fairly  seemed  to  dance  about  us,  and  to 
recede  away  from  us.      Such  wild,  sweet  music 


248  IN   MAMMOTH   CAVE 

I  had  never  before  heard  rocks  discourse.  Ah, 
the  magic  of  the  right  key!  "Why  leap  ye, 
ye  high  hills  ?  "  why,  but  that  they  had  been 
spoken  to  in  the  right  voice  ?  Is  not  the  whole 
secret  of  life  to  pitch  our  voices  in  the  right 
key  ?  Eesponses  come  from  the  very  rocks 
when  we  do  so.  I  thought  of  the  lines  of  our 
poet  of  Democracy :  — 

"  Surely,  whoever  speaks  to  me  in  the  right  voice,  him  or 

her  I  shall  follow, 
As  the  water  follows  tlie  moon,  silenth^  with  fluid  steps, 

anywhere  around  the  globe." 

Where  we  were  standing  was  upon  an  arch 
over  an  avenue  which  crossed  our  course  be- 
neath us.  The  reverberations  on  Echo  River, 
a  point  I  did  not  reach,  can  hardly  be  more  sur- 
prising, though  they  are  described  as  wonderful. 

There  are  four  or  five  levels  in  the  cave,  and 
a  series  of  avenues  upon  each.  The  lowest  is 
some  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  below  the  en- 
trance. Here  the  stream  which  has  done  all 
this  carving  and  tunneling  has  got  to  the  end 
of  its  tether.  It  is  here  on  a  level  with  Green 
River  in  the  valley  below  and  flows  directly 
into  it.  I  say  the  end  of  its  tether,  though  if 
Green  River  cuts  its  valley  deeper,  the  stream 
will  of  course  follow  suit.  The  bed  of  the 
river  has  probably,  at  successive  periods,  been 
on  a  level  with  each  series  of  avenues  of  the 
cave.  The  stream  is  now  doubtless  but  a  mere 
fraction  of  its  former  self.  Indeed,  every  fea- 
ture of  the  cave  attests  the  greater  volume  and 
activity  of  the  forces  which  carved  it,   in  the 


IN   MAMMOTH    CAVE  249 

earlier  geologic  ages.  The  waters  have  worn 
the  rock  as  if  it  were  but  ice.  The  domes  and 
pits  are  carved  and  fluted  in  precisely  the  way- 
dripping  water  flutes  snow  or  ice.  The  rainfall 
must  have  been  enormous  in  those  early  days, 
and  it  must  have  had  a  much  stronger  and 
sharper  tooth  of  carbonic  acid  gas  than  now. 
It  has  carved  out  enormous  pits  with  perpendi- 
cular sides,  two  or  three  hundred  feet  deep. 
Goring  Dome  I  remember  particularly.  You 
put  your  head  through  an  irregularly  shaped 
window  in  the  wall  at  the  side  of  one  of  the 
avenues,  and  there  is  this  huge  shaft  or  well, 
starting  from  some  higher  level  and  going  down 
two  hundred  feet  below  you.  There  must  have 
been  such  wells  in  the  old  glaciers,  worn  by  a 
rill  of  water  slowly  eating  its  way  down.  It 
was  probably  ten  feet  across,  still  moist  and 
dripping.  The  guide  threw  down  a  lighted 
torch,  and  it  fell  and  fell,  till  I  had  to  crane 
my  neck  far  out  to  see  it  finally  reach  the  bot- 
tom. Some  of  these  pits  are  simply  appalling, 
and  where  the  way  is  narrow,  have  been  covered 
over  to  prevent  accidents. 

No  part  of  Mammoth  Cave  was  to  me  more 
impressive  than  its  entrance,  probably  because 
here  its  gigantic  proportions  are  first  revealed  to 
you,  and  can  be  clearly  seen.  That  strange 
colossal  underworld  here  looks  out  into  the  light 
of  day,  and  comes  in  contrast  with  familiar 
scenes  and  objects.  When  you  are  fairly  in  the 
cave,  you  cannot  see  it;  that  is,  with  your 
above-ground  eyes ;  you  walk  along  by  the  dim 


250  IN   MAMMOTH   CAVE 

light  of  your  lamp  as  in  a  huge  wood  at  night; 
when  the  guide  lights  up  the  more  interesting 
portions  with  his  torches  and  colored  lights,  the 
effect  is  weird  and  spectral;  it  seems  like  a 
dream;  it  is  an  unfamiliar  world;  you  hardly 
know  whether  this  is  the  emotion  of  grandeur 
which  you  experience,  or  of  mere  strangeness. 
If  you  could  have  the  light  of  day  in  there, 
you  would  come  to  your  senses,  and  could  test 
the  reality  of  your  impressions.  At  the  en- 
trance you  have  the  light  of  day,  and  you  look 
fairly  in  the  face  of  this  underground  monster, 
yea,  into  his  open  mouth,  which  has  a  span  of 
fifty  feet  or  more,  and  down  into  his  contracting 
throat,  where  a  man  can  barely  stand  upright, 
and  where  the  light  fades  and  darkness  begins. 
As  you  come  down  the  hill  through  the  woods 
from  the  hotel,  you  see  no  sign  of  the  cave  till 
you  emerge  into  a  small  opening  where  the 
grass  grows  and  the  sunshine  falls,  when  you 
turn  slightly  to  the  right,  and  there  at  your  feet 
yawns  this  terrible  pit;  and  you  feel  indeed  as 
if  the  mountain  had  opened  its  mouth  and  was 
lying  in  wait  to  swallow  you  down,  as  a  whale 
might  swallow  a  shrimj).  I  never  grew  tired 
of  sitting  or  standing  here  by  this  entrance  and 
gazing  into  it.  It  had  for  me  something  of  the 
same  fascination  that  the  display  of  the  huge 
elemental  forces  of  nature  have,  as  seen  in 
thunder-storms,  or  in  a  roaring  ocean  surf. 
Two  phoebe-birds  had  their  nests  in  little  niches 
of  the  rocks,  and  delicate  ferns  and  wild-flowers 
fringed  the  edges. 


IN   MAMMOTH   CAVE  251 

Another  very  interesting  feature  to  me  was 
the  behavior  of  the  cool  air  which  welled  up 
out  of  the  mouth  of  the  cave.  It  simulated 
exactly  a  fountain  of  water.  It  rose  up  to  a 
certain  level,  or  until  it  filled  the  depression 
immediately  about  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  and 
then  flowing  over  at  the  lowest  point,  ran  down 
the  hill  towards  Green  Kiver,  along  a  little 
watercourse,  exactly  as  if  it  had  been  a  liquid. 
I  amused  myself  by  wading  down  into  it  as  into 
a  fountain.  The  air  above  was  muggy  and  hot, 
the  thermometer  standing  at  about  eighty-six 
degrees,  and  this  cooler  air  of  the  cave,  which 
was  at  a  temperature  of  about  fifty-two  degrees, 
was  separated  in  the  little  pool  or  lakelet  which 
is  formed  from  the  hotter  air  above  it  by  a  per- 
fectly horizontal  line.  As  I  stepped  down  into 
it  I  could  feel  it  close  over  my  feet,  then  it 
was  at  my  knees,  then  I  was  immersed  to  my 
hips,  then  to  my  waist,  then  I  stood  neck  deep 
in  it,  my  body  almost  chilled  while  my  face 
and  head  were  bathed  by  a  sultry,  oppressive 
air.  Where  the  two  bodies  of  air  came  into 
contact,  a  slight  film  of  vapor  was  formed  by 
condensation ;  I  waded  in  till  I  could  look  under 
this  as  under  a  ceiling.  It  was  as  level,  and 
as  well  defined  as  a  sheet  of  ice  on  a  pond. 
A  few  moments'  immersion  into  this  aerial 
fountain  made  one  turn  to  the  warmer  air  again. 
At  the  depression  in  the  rim  of  the  basin  one 
had  but  to  put  his  hand  down  to  feel  the  cold 
air  flowing  over  like  water.  Fifty  yards  below, 
you  could  still  wade  into  it  as  into  a  creek,  and 


252  IN   MAMMOTH   CAVE 

at  a  hundred  yards  it  was  still  quickly  percep- 
tible, but  broader  and  higher;  it  had  begun  to 
lose  some  of  its  coldness,  and  to  mingle  with 
the  general  air;  all  the  plants  growing  on  the 
margin  of  the  watercourse  were  in  motion,  as 
well  as  the  leaves  on  the  low  branches  of  the 
trees  near  by.  Gradually  this  cool  current  was 
dissipated  and  lost  in  the  warmth  of  the  day. 


HASTY   OBSERVATION 

When  Boswell  told  Dr.  Johnson  that  while 
in  Italy  he  had  several  times  seen  the  experi- 
ment tried  of  placing  a  scorpion  within  a  circle 
of  burning  coals,  and  that  in  every  instance  the 
scorpion,  after  trying  to  break  through  the  fiery 
circle,  retired  to  the  centre  and  committed  sui- 
cide by  darting  its  sting  into  its  head,  the  doc- 
tor showed  the  true  scientific  spirit  by  demand- 
ing   further    proof    of     the     fact.       The    mere 
testimony  of  the  eye  under  such  circumstances 
was  not  enough;    appearances  are  often  decep- 
tive.     "If  the  great  anatomist  Morgagni,"  said 
the    doctor,     "after    dissecting    a    scorpion    on 
which  the  experiment  had   been  tried,   should 
certify  that  its  sting  had  penetrated  its  head, 
that  would    be    convincing."     For   almost  the 
only  time  in  his  life,  I  say,   the  superstitious 
doctor  showed  himself  a  true  scientist,  a  man 
refusing  to  accept  the  truth  of  appearances. 

But  this  frame  of  mind  was  not  habitual  to 
him,  for  the  next  moment  he  said  that  swallows 
sleep  all  winter  in  the  bed  of  a  river  or  pond, 
"  conglobulated "  into  a  ball.  The  scientific 
spirit  would  have  required  him  to  insist  upon 
the  proof  of  the  alleged  fact  in  this  case  the 
same  as  in  the  other.      Has  any  competent  ob- 


254  HASTY   OBSERVATION 

server  verified  this  statement  ?  Have  svrallows 
been  taken  out  of  the  mud,  or  been  seen  to 
throw  themselves  into  the  water? 

Albertus  Magnus  (1193-1280),  in  his  book 
on  animals,  says  that  the  eel  leaves  the  water  in 
the  night  time,  and  invades  the  fields  and  gar- 
dens to  feed  upon  peas  and  lentils.  A  scien- 
tific man  makes  this  statement,  and  probably 
upon  no  stronger  proof  than  that  some  eels 
dropped  by  poachers  in  their  hasty  retreat,  had 
been  found  in  a  pea  patch.  If  peas  had  been 
found,  and  found  in  many  cases,  in  the  stom- 
achs of  eels,  that  Avould  have  been  pretty  con- 
clusive proof  that  eels  eat  peas. 

The  great  thing  in  observation  is  not  to  be 
influenced  by  our  preconceived  notions,  or  by 
what  we  want  to  be  true,  or  by  our  fears,  hopes, 
or  any  personal  element,  and  to  see  the  thing 
just  as  it  is. 

A  person  who  believes  in  ghosts  and  apjDari- 
tions  cannot  be  depended  upon  to  investigate 
an  alleged  phenomenon  of  this  sort,  because  he 
will  not  press  his  inquiry  far  enough,  and  will 
take  for  granted  the  very  fact  we  want  proof  of. 

The  eye  does  not  always  see  what  is  in  front 
of  it.  Indeed  it  might  almost  be  said,  it  sees 
only  what  is  back  of  it,  in  the  mind.  When- 
ever I  have  any  particular  subject  in  mind, 
every  walk  gives  me  new  material.  If  I  am 
thinking  about  tree-toads,  I  find  tree-toads.  If 
I  am  dwelling  upon  birds'  nests,  I  find  plenty 
of  nests  which  otherwise  I  should  have  passed 
by.  If  bird-songs  occupy  me,  I  am  bound  to, 
hear  some  new  or  peculiar  note. 


HASTY    OBSERVATION  250 

Every  one  has  observed  how,  after  he  has 
made  the  acquaintance  of  a  new  word,  that 
word  is  perpetually  turning  up  in  his  reading, 
as  if  it  had  suddenly  become  the  fashion. 
When  you  have  a  thing  in  mind,  it  is  not  long 
till  you  have  it  in  hand.  Torrey  and  Drum- 
mond,  the  botanists,  were  one  day  walking  in 
the  woods  near  West  Point.  "I  have  never 
yet  found  so  and  so,"  said  Drummond,  naming 
a  rare  kind  of  moss.  "Find  it  anywhere," 
said  Torrey,  and  stooped  and  picked  it  up  at 
their  feet.  Thoreau  could  pick  up  arrowheads 
with  the  same  ease.  Many  people  have  the 
same  quick  eye  for  a  four-leafed  clover.  I  may 
say  of  myself  without  vanity,  that  I  see  birds 
with  like  ease.  It  is  no  effort,  I  cannot  help 
it.  Either  my  eye  or  my  ear  is  on  duty  quite 
unbeknown  to  me.  When  I  visit  my  friends, 
I  leave  a  trail  of  birds  behind  me,  as  old  Am- 
phion  left  a  plantation  of  trees  wherever  he  sat 
down  and  played. 

The  scientific  habit  of  mind  leads  a  man  to 
take  into  account  all  possible  sources  of  error 
in  such  observations.  The  senses  are  all  so 
easily  deceived. 

People  of  undoubted  veracity  tell  you  of  the 
strange  things  they  have  known  to  rain  down, 
or  of  some  strange  bird  or  beast  they  have  seen. 
But  if  you  question  them  closely,  you  are  pretty 
sure  to  find  some  flaw  in  the  observation,  or 
some  link  of  evidence  wanting.  We  are  so  apt 
to  jump  to  conclusions;  we  take  one  or  two 
steps  in  following  up  the  evidence,   and  then 


256  HASTY   OBSERVATION 

leap  to  the  result  that  seems  to  be  indicated. 
If  you  find  a  trout  in  the  milk,  you  may  be  jus- 
tified in  jumping  to  a  conclusion  not  flattering 
to  your  milkman,  but  if  you  find  angle-worms 
in  the  barrel  of  rain-water  after  a  shower,  you 
are  not  to  conclude  that  therefore  they  rained 
down,  as  many  people  think  they  do. 

Or  if  after  a  shower  in  summer  you  find  the 
ground  swarming  with  little  toads,  you  are  not 
to  infer  that  the  shower  brought  them  down. 
I  have  frequently  seen  large  numbers  of  little 
toads  hopping  about  after  a  shower,  but  only  in 
particular  localities.  Upon  a  small,  gravelly 
hill  in  the  highway  along  which  I  was  in  the 
habit  of  walking,  I  have  seen  them  several  sea- 
sons, but  in  no  other  place  upon  that  road. 
Just  why  they  come  out  on  such  occasions  is  a 
question;  probably  to  get  their  jackets  wet. 
There  was  a  pond  and  marshy  ground  not  far 
oif  where  they  doubtless  hatched.  Because  the 
frogs  are  heard  in  the  marshes  in  spring  as  soon 
as  the  ice  and  snow  are  gone,  it  is  a  popular  be- 
lief that  they  hibernate  in  these  places.  But 
the  two  earliest  frogs,  I  am  convinced,  pass  the 
winter  in  the  ground  in  the  woods,  and  seek 
the  marshes  as  soon  as  the  frost  and  ice  are 
gone.  I  have  heard  the  hyla  pipe  in  a  feeble 
tentative  manner  in  localities  where  the  ground 
was  free  from  frost,  while  the  marshes  near  by 
were  yet  covered  with  solid  ice;  and  in  spring 
I  have  dug  out  another  species  from  beneath  the 
leaf  mould  in  the  woods.  Both  these  species 
are  properly  land-frogs,   and  only  take  to  the 


HASTY   OBSERVATION  257 

water  to  breed,    returning  again   to  the  woods 
later  in  the  season.      The  same  is  true  of  the 
tree-frog,  which  passes  the  winter  in  the  ground 
or  in  hollow  trees,  and  takes  to  the  marshes  in 
May  to  deposit  its   eggs.      The  common  bull- 
frog and   the  pickerel-frog   doubtless   pass   the 
winter  in   the  bed  of    ponds  and    streams.      I 
think  it  is  quite  certain  that  hiljernating  ani- 
mals in  the  ground  do  not  freeze,  though  by  no 
means  beyond  the  reach  of  frost.      The  frogs, 
ants,    and   crickets   are   probably    protected    by 
some  sort  of   acid  which   their   bodies   secrete, 
though  this  is  only  a  guess  of  my  own.      The 
frog  I  dug  out  of  the  leaves  one  spring  day, 
while  the  ground    above    and    below  him  was 
frozen  hard,  was  entirely  free  from  frost,  though 
his  joints  were  apparently  very  stiff.      A  friend 
of  mine   in    balling  some    trees   in  winter  cut 
through  a  den  of  field  crickets;  the  ground  was 
frozen    about    their  galleries,    but   the   crickets 
themselves,  though  motionless,  were  free  from 
frost.      Cut  the  large,  black  tree  ants  out  of  a 
pine  log  in  winter  and  though  apparently  life- 
less they  are  not  frozen. 

There  is  something  in  most  of  us  that  wel- 
comes a  departure  from  the  ordinary  routine  of 
natural  causes;  we  like  to  believe  that  the  im- 
possible happens;  we  like  to  see  the  marvelous 
and  mysterious  crop  out  of  ordinary  occurrences. 
We  like  to  believe,  for  instance,  that  snakes 
can  charm  their  prey ;  can  exert  some  mysteri- 
ous influence  over  bird  or  beast  at  a  distance  of 
many  feet,  which  deprives  it  of  power  to  escape. 


258  HASTY   OBSERVATION 

But  there  is  probably  little  truth  in  this  popular 
notion.    Fear  often  paralyzes,  and  doubtless  this 
is  the  whole  secret  of  the  power  of  snakes  and 
cats  to  charm  their  prey.      It  is  what  is  called  a 
subjective  phenomenon;  the  victim  is  fascinated 
or  spellbound  by  the  sudden  and  near  appear- 
ance   of    its    enemy.      A    sportsman    in   whose 
veracity  I  have  full  confidence,  told  me  that  his 
pointer  dog  had  several  times  worked  up  to  a 
woodcock    or    partridge    and    seized    it    in    his 
mouth.      Of  course  the  dog  brought  no  myste- 
rious power  to  bear  upon  the  bird.      He  could 
hardly  have  seen  the  bird  till  he  came  plump 
upon  it;  he  was  wholly  intent  upon  unraveling 
its  trail.      The  bird,  in  watching  the  eager  mo- 
tions and  the  gradual  approach  of  the  dog,  must 
have  been  thrown  into  such  a  state  of  fear  or 
consternation  as  to  quite   paralyze  its  powers, 
and  suffered  the  dog  to  pick  it  up.      In  the  case 
of  snakes,  they  doubtless  in  most  instances  ap- 
proach and  seize  their  prey  unawares.      I  have 
seen   a   little  snake   in    the  woods  pursue  and 
overtake  a  lizard  that  was  trying  to  escape  from 
it.      There  was  no  attempt  at  charming;  supe- 
rior speed  alone  gave  the  victory  to  the  snake. 
I  have  known  a  red  squirrel  to  be  caught  and 
swallowed  by  a  black  snake,  but  I  have  no  be- 
lief that  the  squirrel  was  charmed;  it  was  more 
probably  seized  from  some  ambush. 

One  can  hardly  understand  how  a  mouse  can 
be  caught  by  a  hawk  except  upon  the  theory 
that  the  mouse  is  suddenly  paralyzed  by  fear. 
The  meadow-mouse  when  exposed    to  view  ia 


HASTY   OBSERVATION  259 

very  wary  and  quick  in  its  movements;  it  is 
nibbling  grass  in  the  meadow  bottom,  or  clear- 
ing its  runway,  or  shaping  its  nest,  when  the 
hawk  poises  on  wing  high  in  the  air  above  it. 
When  the  hawk  discovers  its  victim,  it  descends 
with  extended  talons  to  the  earth  and  seizes  it. 
It  does  not  drop  like  a  bolt  from  heaven;  its 
descent,  on  the  contrary,  is  quite  deliberate, 
and  must  be  attended  by  a  sound  of  rushing 
wings  that  ought  to  reach  the  mouse's  ear,  if 
the  form  escapes  its  eye. 

There  is  doubtless  just  as  much  '^charming" 
in  this  case  as  in  any  other,  or  when  a  fish- 
hawk  falls  through  the  air  and  seizes  a  fish  near 
the  surface  in  perfectly  clear  water  —  what  hin- 
ders the  fish  from  seeing  and  avoiding  its  en- 
emy ?  Apparently  nothing ;  apparently  it  allows 
itself  to  be  seized.  Every  fisherman  knows 
how  alert  most  fish  are,  how  quickly  they  dis- 
cover him  and  dart  away,  even  when  he  is  im- 
mediately above  them.  All  I  contend  for  is 
that  the  snake,  the  cat,  the  hawk,  does  not  ex- 
ert some  mysterious  power  over  its  prey,  but 
that  its  prey  in  many  cases  loses  its  power  to 
escape  through  fear.  It  is  said  that  a  stuffed 
snake's  skin  will  charm  a  bird  as  well  as  the  live 
snake. 

I  came  near  reaching  a  hasty  conclusion  the 
other  day  with  regard  to  a  chickadee's  nest. 
The  nest  is  in  a  small  cavity  in  the  limb  of  a 
pear-tree  near  my  study,  and  the  birds  and  I 
are  on  very  friendly  terms.  As  the  nest  of 
a  pair  of  chickadees  had  been  broken  up  here  a 


260  HASTY   OBSERVATION 

few  seasons  ago  by  a  mouse  or  squirrel,  I  was 
apprehensive  lest  this  nest  share  the  same  fate. 
Hence  when,  one  morning,  the  birds  were  miss- 
ing, and  I  found  on  inspection  what  appeared 
to  be  the  hair  of  some  small  animal  adhering  to 
the  edges  of  the  hole  that  leads  to  the  nest,  I 
concluded  that  the  birds  had  been  cleaned  out 
again.  Later  in  the  day  I  examined  the  sup- 
posed hair  with  my  pocket  glass,  and  found  it 
was  not  hair,  but  some  vegetable  fibre.  My 
next  conclusion  was  that  the  birds  had  not  been 
molested,  but  that  they  Avere  furnishing  their 
apartment,  and  some  of  the  material  had  stuck 
to  the  door  jambs.  This  proved  to  be  the  cor- 
rect inference.  The  chickadee  makes  a  little 
felt-like  mat  or  carpet  with  which  it  covers  the 
bottom  of  the  nest-cavity.  A  day  or  two  later, 
in  my  vineyard  near  by,  I  found  where  a  piece 
of  heavy  twine  that  held  a  yoimg  grapevine  to  a 
stake  had  been  pulled  down  to  the  ground  and 
picked  and  beaten,  and  parts  of  it  reduced  to 
its  original  tow.  Here,  doubtless,  the  birds 
had  got  some  of  their  carpeting  material. 

I  recently  read  in  a  work  on  ornithology  that 
the  rings  of  small  holes  which  we  see  in  the 
trunks  and  limbs  of  perfectly  sound  apple-trees 
are  made  by  woodpeckers  in  search  of  grubs  and 
insects.  This  is  a  hasty  inference.  These 
holes  are  made  by  woodpeckers,  but  the  food 
they  obtain  at  the  bottom  of  them  is  not  the 
flesh  of  worm  or  insect,  but  the  flesh  of  the 
apple-tree  —  the  soft,  milky  inner  bark.  The 
same  writer  says  these  holes  are  not  hurtful  to 


HASTY    OBSERVATION  '^61 

the  tree,  but  conducive  to  its  health.      Yet  I 
have  seen  the  limbs  of  large  apple-trees  nearly 
killed  by  being  encompassed  by  numerous  rings 
of  large,  deep  holes  made  by  the  yellow-bellied 
woodpecker.      This    bird    drills    holes    in    the 
sugar  maple  in  the  spring  for  the  sap      I  have 
known  him  to  spend  the  greater  part  of  a  bright 
March  day  on  the  sunny  side  of  a  maple,  in- 
dulging in  a  tipple  of  maple  sap  every  four  or 
five  minutes.      As  fast  as  his  well  holes  filled 
up  he  would  sip  them  dry. 

A  lady  told  me  that    a  woodpecker  drilled 
holes  in  the  boards  that  form  the  eaves  of  her 
house,  for  the  grubs  of  the  carpenter  bumblebee. 
This  also  seemed  to  me  a  hasty  conclusion,  be- 
cause the  woodpeckers  made  holes  so  large  that 
the    next    season    the   bluebirds    nested   there. 
The  woodpeckers  were  probably  drilling  for  a 
place  to  nest.      A  large  ice-house  stands  on  the 
river  bank  near  me,  and  every  season  the  man 
in  charge  has  to  shoot  or  drive  away  the  high- 
holes  that  cut  numerous  openings  through  the 
outer    sheathing   of    hemlock    boards    into   the 
spaces  filled  with  sawdust,  where  they  find  the 
digging  easy  and  a  nesting-place  safe  and  snug 

My  neighbor  caught  a  small  hawk  in  his  shad- 
net,  and  therefore  concluded  the  hawk  ate  fish. 
He  put  him  in  a  cage,  and  offered  him  frag- 
ments of  shad.  The  little  hawk  was  probably 
in  pursuit  of  a  bird  which  took  refuge  under 
the  net  as  it  hung  upon  the  drying-poles ;  or  he 
may  have  swooped  down  upon  the  net  m  the 
spirit  of   pure   bluster  and  bravado,    and  thus 


262  HASTY   OBSERVATION 

come  to  grief  in  a  hurry.  The  fine,  strong 
threads  of  the  net  defied  his  murderous  beak 
and  talons.  He  was  engulfed  as  completely  as 
is  a  fly  in  a  spider's  web,  and  the  more  he 
struggled  the  more  hopeless  his  case  became. 
It  was  a  pigeon-hawk,  and  these  little  maraud- 
ers are  very  saucy. 

My  neighbor  says  that  in  the  city  of  Brook- 
lyn he  has  known  kingbirds  to  nest  in  boxes 
like  martins  and  bluebirds.  I  question  this 
observation,  though  it  may  be  true.  The  cousin 
of  the  kingbird,  the  great  crested  flycatcher, 
builds  in  cavities  in  trees,  and  its  relative,  the 
phoebe-bird,  nests  under  bridges  and  hay-sheds. 
Hence  there  is  this  fact  to  start  with  in  favor 
of  my  neighbor's  observation. 

But  when  a  lady  from  Pennsylvania  writes 
me  that  she  has  seen  "swallows  rolling  and 
dabbling  in  the  mud  in  early  spring,  their 
breasts  so  covered  with  it  that  it  would  take  but 
little  stretch  of  imagination  to  believe  they  had 
just  emerged  from  the  bottom  of  the  pond  be- 
side which  they  were  playing,"  I  am  more  than 
skeptical.  The  lady  has  not  seen  straight. 
The  swallows  were  not  rolling  in  the  mud; 
there  was  probably  not  a  sjDeck  of  mud  upon 
their  plumage,  but  a  little  upon  their  beaks 
and  feet.  The  red  of  their  breasts  was  their 
own  proper  color.  They  were  building  their 
nests,  as  my  correspondent  knew,  but  they  did 
not  carefully  mix  and  knead  the  mud,  as  she 
thought  they  did;  they  had  selected  mortar 
already  of  the  proper  sort. 


HASTY   OBSERVATION  263 

The  careful  observer  is  not  long  in  learning 
that  there  is  truth  in  the  poet's  remark,  that 
"things  are  not  what  they  seem."  Everywhere 
on  the  surface  of  nature  things  seem  one  thing, 
and  mean  quite  another.  The  hasty  observer 
is  misled  by  the  seeming,  and  thus  misses  the 
real  truth.  ^ 

The  little  green  snake  that  I  saw  aniong  the 
"  live-for-evers "  the  other  day,  how  nearly  it 
escaped  detection  by  the  close  resemblance  of  its 
color  to  that  of  the  plant!  And  when,  a  few 
days  later,  I  saw  one  carelessly  disposed  across 
the  top  of  the  bending  grass  and  daisies,  but  a 
few  feet  from  where  I  sat,  my  eye  again  came 
near  being  baffled. 

The  little  snake  was  probably  lying  in  wait 
for  some  insect.  Presently  it  slid  gently  down 
into  the  grass,  moving  so  slowly  as  to  escape 
any  but  the  most  watchful  eye.  After  its  head 
and  a  part  of  its  body  were  upon  the  ground, 
its  tail  still  pointed  straight  up  and  exactly  re- 
sembled some  fresh  vegetable  growth.  The 
safeguard  of  this  little  snake  is  in  his  protective 
coloring;  hence  his  movements  are  slower  and 
more  deliberate  than  those  of  the  other  snakes. 

This  simulation  is  very  common  in  nature. 
Every  creature  has  its  enemy,  and  pretends  to 
be  that  which  it  is  not,  in  order  to  escape  de- 
tection. The  true  frog  pretends  to  be  a  piece 
of  bark,  or  a  lichen  upon  a  tree;  the  wood-frog 
is  the  color  of  the  dry  leaves  upon  which  it 
hops,  though  when  spawning  in  the  little  black 
pools  and  tarns  in  spring,  its  color  is  very  dark, 
like  the  element  it  inhabits. 


264  HASTY   OBSERVATION 

One  day,  in  my  walk  in  the  woods,  I  dis- 
turbed a  whippoorwill  where  she  sat  upon  her 
eggs  on  the  ground.  When  I  returned  to  the 
spot  some  hours  afterward,  and  tried  to  make 
out  the  bird  upon  her  nest,  my  eye  was  baffled 
for  some  moments,  so  successful  was  she  in  pre- 
tending to  be  only  a  mottled  stick  or  piece  of 
fallen  bark. 

Only  the  most  practiced  eye  can  detect  the 
partridge  (ruffled  grouse)  when  she  sits  or 
stands  in  full  view  upon  the  ground  in  the 
woods.  How  well  she  plays  her  part,  rarely 
moving,  till  she  suddenly  bursts  up  before  you, 
and  is  gone  in  a  twinkling!  How  well  her 
young  are  disciplined  always  to  take  their  cue 
from  her !  Not  one  will  stir  till  she  gives  the 
signal. 

One  day  in  my  walk,  as  I  paused  on  the  side 
of  a  steep  hill  in  the  edge  of  the  woods,  my 
eye  chanced  to  fall  upon  a  partridge,  sitting 
upon  the  leaves  beside  a  stump  scarcely  three 
paces  from  me.  *'Can  she  have  a  nest  there? " 
was  my  first  thought.  Then  I  remembered  it 
was  late  in  the  summer,  and  she  certainly  could 
not  be  incubating.  Then  why  is  she  sitting 
there  in  that  exposed  manner'? 

Keeping  my  eye  upon  her,  I  took  a  step  for- 
ward, when,  quick  as  a  flash,  she  sprang  into 
the  air  and  went  humming  away.  At  the  same 
moment,  all  about  me,  almost  from  under  my 
feet,  her  nearly  grown  young  sprang  up  and 
went  booming  through  the  woods  after  her. 
Not  one  of  them  had  moved  or  showed  fear  till 
their  mother  gave  the  word. 


HASTY   OBSERVATION  265 

To  observe  nature  and  know  her  secrets,  one 
needs  not  only  a  sharp  eye,  but  a  steady  and 
patient  eye.  You  must  look  again  and  again, 
and  not  be  misled  by  appearances.  All  the 
misinformation  about  the  objects  and  phenom- 
ena of  nature  afloat  among  country  people  is  the 
result  of  hasty  and  incomplete  observation. 

In  parts  of  the  country  where  wheat  is  grown 
there  is  quite  a  prevalent  belief  among  the  farm- 
ers that  if  the  land  is  poor  or  neglected,  the 
wheat  will  turn  into  chess  or  cheat  grass. 
Have  they  not  seen  it,  have  they  not  known  the 
wheat  to  disappear  entirely,  and  the  chess  to  be 
there  in  its  place? 

But  like  so  many  strange  notions  that  are 
current  in  the  rural  districts,  this  notion  is  the 
result  of  incomplete  observation.  The  cheat 
grass  was  there  all  the  while,  feebler  and  in- 
conspicuous, but  biding  its  time;  when  the 
wheat  failed  and  gave  up  possession  of  the  soil 
the  grass  sprang  forward  and  took  its  place. 

Nature  always  has  a  card  to  play  in  that  way. 
There  is  no  miracle  nor  case  of  spontaneous 
generation  about  the  curious  succession  of  forest 
trees  —  oak  succeeding  pine,  or  poplar  succeed- 
ing birch  or  maple  —  if  we  could  get  at  the  facts. 
Nature  only  lets  loose  germs  which  the  winds 
or  the  birds  and  animals  have  long  since  stored 
there,  and  which  have  only  been  waiting  their 
opportunity  to  grow. 

A  great  many  people  are  sure  there  is  such  a 
creature  as  a  glass  snake,  a  snake  which  breaks 
up  into  pieces  to  escape  its  enemies,  and  then 


266  HASTY   OBSERVATION 

when  danger  is  past  gets  itself  together  again 
and  goes  its  way. 

Not  long  since  a  man  published  an  account  in 
a  scientific  journal  of  a  glass  snake  which  he 
had  encountered  in  a  hay-field,  and  which, 
when  he  attemjDted  to  break  its  head,  had 
broken  itself  up  into  five  or  six  pieces. 

He  carefully  examined  the  pieces  and  found 
them  of  regular  lengths  of  three  or  four  inches, 
and  that  they  dovetailed  together  by  a  nice  and 
regular  process.  He  left  the  fragments  in  the 
grass,  and  when  he  returned  from  dinner  they 
were  all  gone.  He  therefore  inferred  the  snake 
had  reconstructed  itself  and  traveled  on. 

K  he  had  waited  to  see  this  process,  his  ob- 
servation would  have  been  complete. 

On  another  occasion,  he  cut  one  in  two  with 
his  scythe,  when  the  snake  again  made  small 
change  of  itself.  Again  he  went  to  his  dinner 
just  at  the  critical  time,  and  when  he  returned 
the  fragments  of  the  reptile  had  disappeared. 

This  will  not  do.  We  must  see  the  play 
out,  before  we  can  report  upon  the  last  act. 

There  is,  of  course,  a  small  basis  of  fact  in 
the  superstition  of  the  glass  snake.  The  crea- 
ture is  no  snake  at  all,  but  a  species  of  limbless 
lizard,  quite  common  in  the  West.  And  it  has 
the  curious  power  of  voluntarily  breaking  itself 
up  into  regular  pieces  when  disturbed,  but  it  is 
only  the  tail  which  is  so  broken  up;  the  body 
part  remains  intact. 

Break  this  up  and  the  snake  is  dead.  The 
tail  is  disproportionately  long,  and  is  severed  at 


HASTY   OBSERVATION  267 

certain  points,  evidently  to  mislead  its  enemies. 
It  is  the  old  trick  of  throwing  a  tub  to  a  whale. 
The  creature  sacrifices  its  tail  to  secure  the 
safety  of  its  body.  These  fragments  have  no 
power  to  unite  themselves  again,  but  a  new  tail 
is  grown  in  place  of  the  part  lost.  When  a  real 
observer  encountered  the  glass  or  joint-snake, 
these  facts  were  settled. 

The  superstition  of  the  hair- snake  is  founded 
upon  a  like  incomplete  observation.  Every- 
where may  be  found  intelligent  people  who  will 
tell  you  they  know  that  a  horse-hair,  if  put 
into  the  spring,  will  turn  into  a  snake,  and  that 
all  hair-snakes  have  this  origin.  But  a  hair 
never  turns  into  a  snake  any  more  than  wheat 
is  transformed  into  chess.  The  so-called  hair- 
snake  is  a  parasitical  worm  which  lives  in  the 
bodies  of  various  insects,  and  which  at  maturity 
takes  to  the  water  to  lay  its  eggs. 

What  boy,  while  trout-fishing  in  July  and 
August,  and  using  grasshoppers  for  bait,  has  not 
been  vexed  to  find  the  body  of  the  insect,  when 
snapped  at  by  the  trout,  yielding  a  long,  white, 
brittle  thread,  which  clogged  his  hook,  and 
spoiled  the  attractiveness  of  the  bait?  This 
thread  is  the  hair-worm. 

How  the  germ  first  gets  into  the  body  of  the 
grasshopper  I  do  not  know.  After  the  creature 
leaves  the  insect,  it  becomes  darker  in  color,  and 
narder  and  firmer  in  texture,  and  more  closely 
resembles  a  large  hair. 

See  what  pains  the  trapper  will  take  to  outwit 
the  fox;  see  what  art  the  angler  will  practice 


268  HASTY   OBSERVATION 

to  deceive  the  wary  trout.  One  must  pursue 
the  truth  with  the  like  patience  and  diligence. 

The  farmers  all  think,  or  used  to  think,  that 
the  hen-hawk  was  their  enemy,  but  last  spring 
the  Agricultural  Department  procured  three 
hundred  hen-hawks,  and  examined  the  craw  of 
each  of  them,  and  made  the  valuable  discovery 
that  this  hawk  subsisted  almost  entirely  upon 
meadow  mice,  thus  proving  them  to  be  one  of 
the  farmer's  best  friends. 

The  crow,  also,  when  our  observations  upon 
his  food  habits  are  complete,  is  found  to  be  a 
friend,  and  not  an  enemy.  The  smaller  hawks 
do  prey  upon  birds  and  chickens,  though  the 
pretty  little  sparrow-hawk  lives  largely  upon 
insects. 

Gilbert  White  quotes  the  great  Linnaeus  as 
saying  that  "Hawks  make  a  truce  with  other 
birds  as  long  as  the  cuckoo  is  heard.''  This  is 
also  a  superstition.  Watch  closely,  and  you 
will  see  the  small  hawks  in  pursuit  of  birds  at 
all  seasons;  and  when  a  hawk  pursues  a  bird, 
or  when  one  bird  pursues  another,  it  has  the 
power  to  tack  and  turn,  and  to  time  its  move- 
ments to  that  of  the  bird  pursued,  which  is 
quite  marvelous. 

The  sparrow  might  as  well  dodge  its  own 
shadow  as  to  dodge  the  sharp-shinned  hawk. 
It  escapes,  if  at  all,  by  rushing  into  a  bush  or 
tree,  where  the  movements  of  its  enemy  are  im- 
peded by  the  leaves  and  branches. 

Speaking  of  hawks,  reminds  me  that  I  read 
the  other  day  in  one  of  the  magazines  a  very 


HASTY    OBSERVATION  269 

pretty  poem,  in  which  a  hawk  was  represented 
poised  in  mid-air,  on  motionless  wing,  during 
♦^■he  calm  of  a  midsummer  day. 

Now,  of  a  still  day,  this  is  an  impossible  feat 
for  a  hawk  or  any  other  bird.  The  poet  had  not 
observed  quite  closely  enough.  She  had  noted 
(as  who  has  not  ?)  the  ha\vk  stationary  in  the 
air  on  motionless  wing,  but  she  failed  to  note,  or 
she  had  forgotten,  that  the  wind  was  blowing. 

He  cannot  do  it  on  a  calm  day;  the  blowing 
wind  furnishes  the  power  necessary  to  buoy  him 
up.  He  so  adjusts  his  wings  to  the  moving 
currents  that  he  hangs  stationary  upon  them. 
When  the  hawk  hovers  in  the  air  of  a  still  day, 
he  is  compelled  to  beat  his  wings  rapidly.  He 
must  expend  upon  the  air  the  power  which,  in 
the  former  case,  is  expended  upon  him. 

Thus  does  hasty  and  incomplete  observation 

mislead  one. 

One  day  in  early  April  as  I  was  riding  along 

the  road  I  heard  the  song  of  the  brown  thrasher. 

The  thrasher  is  not  due  yet,  I  said  to  myself, 

but  there  was  its  song,  and  no  mistake,  with 

all  its  quibs  and  quirks  and  interludes,  being 

chanted  from  some  tree -top  a  few  yards  in  ad^ 

vance  of  me.      Let  us  have  a  view  of  the  bird, 

I  said,  as  I  approached  the  tree  upon  which  I 

fancied  he  was  perched.      The  song  ceased  and 

no  thrasher  was  visible,  but  there  sat  a  robin, 

which,  as  I  paused,  flew  to  a  lower  tree  in  a  field 

at  some  distance  from  the  road.      Then  I  moved 

on,  thinking  the  songster  had  eluded  me.      On 

looking  back  I  chanced  to  see  the  robin  fly  back 


270  HASTY    OBSERVATION 

to  the  top  of  the  tree  where  I  had  first  disturbed 
it,  and  in  a  moment  or  two  more,  forth  came 
the  thrasher's  song  again.  Then  I  went  cau- 
tiously back  and  caught  the  robin  in  the  very 
act  of  reproducing  perfectly  the  song  of  the 
brown  thrasher.  A  bolder  plagiarist  I  had 
never  seen;  not  only  had  he  got  the  words,  as 
it  were  correctly,  but  he  delivered  them  in  the 
same  self-conscious  manner.  His  performance 
would  probably  have  deceived  the  brown 
thrasher  himself.  How  did  the  robin  come  by 
this  song?  I  can  suggest  no  other  explanation 
than  that  he  must  have  learned  it  from  the 
brown  thrasher.  Probably  the  latter  bird  sang 
near  the  nest  of  the  robin,  so  that  the  young 
heard  this  song  and  not  that  of  their  own  kind. 
If  so  it  would  be  interesting  to  know  if  all  the 
young  males  learned  the  song. 

Close  attention  is  the  secret  of  learning  from 
nature's  book,  as  from  every  other.  Most 
persons  only  look  at  the  pictures,  but  the  real 
student  studies  the  text;  he  alone  knows  what 
tlie  pictures  really  mean.  There  is  a  great  deal 
of  by- play  going  on  in  the  life  of  nature  about 
us,  a  great  deal  of  variation  and  out-cropping  of 
individual  traits,  that  we  entirely  miss  unless 
we  have  our  eyes  and  ears  open. 

It  is  not  like  the  play  at  the  theatre,  where 
everything  is  made  conspicuous  and  aims  to 
catch  the  eye,  and  where  the  story  clearly  and 
fully  unfolds  itself.  On  nature's  stage  many 
dramas  are  being  played  at  once,  and  without 
any  reference  to  the  lookers-on,  unless  it  be  to 


HASTY   OBSERVATION  271 

escape  their  notice.  The  actors  rush  or  strut 
across  the  stage,  the  curtain  rises  or  falls,  the 
significant  thing  happens,  and  we  heed  it  not 
because  our  wits  are  dull  or  else  our  minds  are 
preoccupied.  We  do  not  pay  strict  attention. 
Nature  will  not  come  to  you;  you  must  go  to 
her;  that  is,  you  must  put  yourself  in  commu- 
nication with  her;  you  must  open  the  corre- 
spondence; you  must  train  your  eye  to  pick  out 
the  significant  things.  A  quick  open  sense, 
and  a  lively  curiosity  like  that  of  a  boy  are  ne- 
cessary. Indeed,  the  sensitiveness  and  alertness 
of  youth  and  the  care  and  patience  of  later 
years  are  what  make  the  successful  observer. 

The  other  morning  my  little  boy  and  I  set 
out  to  find  the  horse  who  had  got  out  of  the  pas- 
ture and  gone  ofi".  Had  he  gone  up  the  road  or 
down?  We  did  not  know,  but  we  imagined 
Ave  could  distinguish  his  track  going  down  the 
road,  so  we  began  our  search  in  that  direction. 
The  road  presently  led  through  a  piece  of 
woods.      Suddenly  my  little  boy  stopped  me. 

"Papa,  see  that  spider's  web  stretched  across 
the  road;  our  horse  has  not  gone  this  way." 

My  face  had  nearly  touched  the  web  or  cable 
of  the  little  spider,  which  stretched  completely 
across  the  road,  and  which  certainly  would  have 
been  swept  away  had  the  horse  or  any  other 
creature  passed  along  there  in  the  early  morning. 
The  boy's  eye  was  sharper  than  my  own.  He 
had  been  paying  stricter  attention  to  the  signs 
and  objects  about  him.  We  turned  back  and 
60on  found  the  horse  in  the  opposite  direction. 


272  HASTY   OBSERVATION 

This  same  little  boy,  by  looking  closely,  has 
discovered  that  there  are  certain  stingless  wasps. 
When  he  sees  one  which  bears  the  marks  he 
boldly  catches  him  in  his  hand.  The  wasp  goes 
through  the  motions  of  stinging  so  perfectly,  so 
works  and  thrusts  with  its  flexible  body,  that 
nearly  every  hand  to  which  it  is  offered  draws 
back.  The  mark  by  which  the  boy  is  guided  is 
the  light  color  of  the  wasp's  face.  Most  coun- 
try boys  know  that  white-faced  bumble-bees  are 
stingless,  but  I  have  not  before  known  a  boy 
bold  enough  to  follow  the  principle  out  and  ap- 
ply it  to  wasps  as  well.  These  white-faces  are 
the  males,  and  answer  to  the  drones  in  the  bee 
hive;  though  the  drones  have  not  a  white  face. 

We  cannot  all  find  the  same  things  in  nature. 
She  is  all  things  to  all  men.  She  is  like  the 
manna  that  came  down  from  heaven.  "He 
made  manna  to  descend  for  them,  in  which  were 
all  manner  of  tastes;  and  every  Israelite  found 
in  it  what  his  palate  was  chiefly  pleased  with. 
If  he  desired  fat  in  it,  he  had  it.  In  it  the 
young  men  tasted  bread ;  the  old  men,  honey ; 
and  the  children,  oil."  But  all  found  in  it 
substance  and  strength.  So  with  nature.  In 
her  are  "all  manner  of  tastes,"  science,  art, 
poetry,  utility,  and  good  in  all.  The  botanist 
has  one  pleasure  in  her,  the  ornithologist  an- 
other, the  explorer  another,  the  walker  and 
sportsman  another;  what  all  may  have  is  the 
refreshment  and  the  exhilaration  which  come 
from  a  loving  and  intelligent  scrutiny  of  her 
manifold  works. 


BIRD  LI¥E  m   AN  OLD  APPLE- 
TREE 

Near  my  study  there  used  to  stand  several 
old  apple-trees  that  bore  fair  crops  of  apples, 
but  better  crops  of  birds.  Every  year  these  old 
trees  were  the  scenes  of  bird  incidents  and  bird 
histories  that  were  a  source  of  much  interest  and 
amusement. 

Young  trees  may  be  the  best  for  apples,  but 
old  trees  are  sure  to  bear  the  most  birds.  If 
they  are  very  decrepit,  and  full  of  dead  and 
hollow  branches,  they  will  bear  birds  in  winter 
as  well  as  summer.  The  downy  woodpecker 
wants  no  better  place  than  the  brittle,  dozy 
trunk  of  an  apple-tree  in  which  to  excavate  his 
winter  home. 

My  old  apple-trees  are  all  down  but  one,  and 
this  one  is  probably  an  octogenarian,  and  I  am 
afraid  cannot  stand  in  another  winter.  Its  body 
is  a  mere  shell  not  much  over  one  inch  thick,  the 
heart  and  main  interior  structure  having  turned 
to  black  mould  long  ago. 

An  old  tree,  unlike  an  old  person,  as  long  as 
it  lives  at  all,  always  has  a  young  streak,  or 
rather  ring,  in  it.  It  wears  a  girdle  of  perpet- 
ual youth. 

My  old  tree  has  never  yet  failed  to  yield  me 


274      BIRD   LIFE    IN   AN   OLD   APPLE-TREE 

a  bushel  or  more  of  gillyflowers,  and  it  has 
turned  out  at  least  a  dozen  broods  of  the  great 
crested  flycatcher,  and  robins  and  bluebirds  in 
proportion.  It  carries  up  one  large  decayed 
trunk  which  some  one  sawed  off  at  the  top  be- 
fore my  time,  and  in  this  a  downy  woodpecker 
is  now,  January  12,  making  a  home. 

Several  years  ago  a  downy  woodpecker  ex- 
cavated a  retreat  in  this  branch,  which  the  fol- 
lowing season  was  appropriated  by  the  blue- 
birds, and  has  been  occupied  by  them  nearly 
every  season  since. 

When  the  bluebirds  first  examined  the  cav- 
ity in  the  spring,  I  suppose  they  did  not  find 
the  woodpecker  at  home,  as  he  is  a  pretty  early 
riser. 

I  happened  to  be  passing  near  the  tree  when, 
on  again  surveying  the  premises  one  afternoon, 
they  found  him  in. 

The  male  bluebird  was  very  angry,  and  I 
suppose  looked  upon  the  innocent  downy  as  an 
intruder.  He  seized  on  him,  and  the  two  fell 
to  the  ground,  the  speckled  woodpecker  quite 
covered  by  the  blue  coat  of  his  antagonist. 
Downy  screamed  vigorously,  and  got  away  as 
soon  as  he  could,  but  not  till  the  bluebird  had 
tweaked  out  a  feather  or  two. 

He  is  evidently  no  fighter,  though  one  would 
think  that  a  bird  that  had  an  instrument  with 
which  it  could  drill  a  hole  into  a  tree  could  de- 
fend itself  against  the  soft- billed  bluebird. 

Two  seasons  the  English  sparrows  ejected  the 
bluebirds  and  established  themselves  in  it,  but 


BIRD   LIFE    IN    AN    OLD    APPLE-TREE    275 

were  in  turn  ejected  by  myself,  their  furniture 
of  hens'  feathers  and  straws  pitched  out,  and 
the  bluebirds  invited  to  return,  which  later  in 
the  season  they  did. 

The  new  cavity  which  downy  is  now  drilling 
is  just  above  the  old  one  and  near  the  top  of 
the  stub.  Its  wells  are  usually  sunk  to  a 
depth  of  six  or  eight  inches,  but  in  the  present 
case  it  cannot  be  sunk  more  than  four  inches 
without  breaking  through  into  the  old  cavity. 

Downy  seems  to  have  considered  the  situa- 
tion, and  is  proceeding  cautiously.  As  she 
passed  last  night  in  her  new  quarters  I  am  in- 
clined to  think  it  is  about  finished,  and  there 
must  be  at  least  one  inch  of  wood  beneath  her. 
She  worked  vigorously  the  greater  part  of  the 
day,  her  yellow  chips  strewing  the  snow  be- 
neath. 

I  paused  several  times  to  observe  her  proceed- 
ings. 

After  her  chips  accumulate  she  stops  her 
drilling  and  throws  them  out.  This  she  does 
with  her  beak,  shaking  them  out  very  rapidly 
with  a  flirt  of  her  head. 

She  did  not  disappear  from  sight  each  time 
to  load  her  beak,  but  withdrew  her  head  and 
appeared  to  seize  the  fragments  as  if  from  her 
feet.  If  she  had  had  a  companion  I  should 
have  thought  he  was  handing  them  up  to  her 
from  the  bottom  of  the  cavity.  Maybe  she  had 
them  piled  up  near  the  doorway. 

The  woodpeckers,  both  the  hairy  and  the 
downy,    usually  excavate   these  winter  retreats 


276    BIRD   LIFE    IN    AN    OLD    APPLE-TREE 

in  the  fall.  They  pass  the  nights  and  the 
stormy  days  in  them.  So  far  as  I  have  ob- 
served they  do  not  use  them  as  nesting-places 
the  following  season. 

Last  night  when  I  rapped  on  the  trunk  of  the 
old  apple-tree  near  sundown,  downy  put  out 
her  head  with  a  surprised  and  inquiring  look, 
and  then  withdrew  it  again  as  I  passed  on. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  broods  of  the  great 
crested  flycatchers  that  have  been  reared  in  the 
old  apple-tree.  This  is  by  no  means  a  common 
bird,  and  as  it  destroys  many  noxious  insects  I 
look  upon  it  with  a  friendly  eye,  though  it  is 
the  most  uncouth  and  unmusical  of  the  flycatch- 
ers. 

Indeed,  among  the  other  birds  of  the  garden 
and  orchard  it  seems  quite  like  a  barbarian. 

It  has  a  harsh,  froglike  scream,  form  and 
manners  to  suit,  and  is  clad  in  a  suit  of  butter- 
nut brown.  It  seeks  a  cast-ofi*  snakeskin  to 
weave  into  its  nest,  and  not  finding  one,  will 
take  an  onion  skin,  a  piece  of  oiled  paper,  or 
large  fish  scales. 

It  builds  in  a  cavity  in  a  tree,  rears  one 
brood,  and  is  off'  early  in  the  season.  I  never 
see  or  hear  it  after  August  1st. 

A  pair  have  built  in  a  large,  hollow  limb  in 
my  old  apple-tree  for  many  years.  Whether  it 
is  the  same  pair  or  not  I  do  not  know.  Proba- 
bly it  is,  or  else  some  of  their  descendants. 

I  looked  into  the  cavity  one  day  while  the 
mother  bird  was  upon  the  nest,  but  before  she 
had  laid  any  eggs.      A  sudden  explosive  sound 


BIRD   LIFE   IN   AN    OLD    APPLE-TREE    277 

came  up  out  of  the  dark  depths  of  the  limb, 
much  like  that  made  by  an  alarmed  cat.  It 
made  me  jerk  my  head  back,  when  out  came 
the  bird  and  hurried  off. 

For  several  days  I  saw  no  more  of  the  pair, 
and  feared  they  had  deserted  the  spot.  But 
they  had  not;  they  were  only  more  sly  than 
usual.  I  soon  discovered  an  egg  in  the  nest, 
and  then  another  and  another. 

One  day,  as  I  stood  near  by,  a  male  bluebird 
came  along  with  his  mate,  prospecting  for  a  spot 
for  a  second  nest.  He  alighted  at  the  entrance 
of  this  hole  and  peeped  in. 

Instantly  the  flycatcher  was  upon  him.  The 
blue  was  enveloped  by  the  butternut  brown. 
The  two  fell  to  the  ground,  where  the  bluebird 
got  away,  and  in  a  moment  more  came  back  and 
looked  in  the  hole  again,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  I 
will  look  into  that  hole  now  at  all  hazards." 

The  barbarian  made  a  dash  for  him  again, 
but  he  was  now  on  his  guard  and  avoided  her. 

Not  long  after,  the  bluebirds  decided  to  oc- 
cupy the  old  cavity  of  the  downy  woodpecker 
from  which  I  had  earlier  in  the  season  expelled 
the  English  sparrows.  After  they  had  estab- 
lished themselves  here  a  kind  of  border  war 
broke  out  between  the  male  bluebird  and  the 
flycatchers,  and  was  kept  up  for  weeks. 

The  bluebird  is  very  jealous  and  very  bold. 
He  will  not  even  tolerate  a  house- wren  in  the 
vicinity  of  his  nest.  Every  bird  that  builds  in 
a  cavity  he  looks  upon  as  his  natural  rival  and 
enemy.      The  flycatchers  did  not  seek  any  quar- 


278    BIRD   LIFE   IN    AN    OLD    APPLE-TREE 

rel  with  him  as  long  as  he  kept  to  his  own 
domicile,  but  he  could  not  tolerate  them  in  the 
same  tree. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight  to  see  this  little  blue- 
coat  charging  the  butternut  through  the  trees. 
The  beak  of  the  latter  would  click  like  a  gun- 
lock,  and  its  harsh,  savage  voice  was  full  of 
anger,  but  the  bluebird  never  flinched,  and  was 
always  ready  to  renew  the  fight. 

The  English  sparrow  will  sometimes  worst 
the  bluebird  by  getting  possession  of  the  box  or 
cavity  ahead  of  him.  Once  inside  the  sparrow 
can  hold  the  fort,  and  the  bluebird  will  soon 
give  up  the  siege;  but  in  a  fair  field  and  no 
favors,  the  native  bird  will  quickly  rout  the  for- 
eigner. 

Speaking  of  birds  that  build  in  cavities  re- 
minds me  of  a  curious  trait  the  high-hole  has 
developed  in  my  vicinity,  one  which  I  have 
never  noticed  or  heard  of  elsewhere. 

It  drills  into  buildings  and  steeples  and  tele- 
graph poles,  and  in  some  instances  makes  itself 
a  serious  nuisance. 

One  season  the  large  imitation  Greek  col- 
umns of  an  unoccupied  old-fashioned  summer 
residence  near  me  were  badly  marred  by  them. 
The  bird  bored  into  one  column,  and  finding 
the  cavity  —  a  foot  or  more  across  —  not  just 
what  it  was  looking  for,  cut  into  another  one, 
and  still  into  another.  Then  he  bored  into  the 
ice-house  on  the  premises,  and  in  the  sawdust 
filling  between  the  outer  and  inner  sheathing 
found  a  place  to  his  liking. 


BIRD   LIFE   IN   AN    OLD   APPLE-TREE    279 

One  bird  seemed  like  a  monomaniac,  and 
drilled  holes  up  and  down  and  right  and  left  as 
if  possessed  of  an  evil  spirit.  It  is  quite  prob- 
able that  if  a  high-hole  or  other  woodpecker 
should  go  crazy,  it  would  take  to  just  this  sort 
of  thing,  drilling  into  seasoned  timber  till  it 
used  its  strength  up.  The  one  I  refer  to  would 
cut  through  a  dry  hemlock  board  in  a  very 
short  time,  making  the  slivers  fly.  The  sound 
was  like  that  of  a  carpenter's  hammer.  It  may 
have  been  that  he  was  an  unmated  bird,  a  bach- 
elor whose  suit  had  not  prospered  that  season, 
and  who  was  giving  vent  to  his  outraged  instincts 
in  drilling  these  mock  nesting-places. 


THE    WAYS   OF    SPORTSMEN 

I  HAVE  often  had  occasion  to  notice  how 
much  more  intelligence  the  bird  carries  in  its 
eye  than  does  the  animal  or  quadruped. 

The  animal  will  see  you,  too,  if  you  are  mov- 
ing, but  if  you  stand  quite  still  even  the  wary 
fox  will  pass  within  a  few  yards  of  you  and  not 
know  you  from  a  stump,  unless  the  wind  brings 
him  your  scent. 

But  a  crow  or  a  hawk  will  discern  you  when 
you  think  yourself  quite  hidden.  His  eye  is 
as  keen  as  the  fox's  sense  of  smell,  and  seems 
fairly  to  penetrate  veils  and  screens.  Most  of 
the  water-fowl  are  equally  sharp-eyed. 

The  chief  reliance  of  the  animals  for  their 
safety,  as  well  as  for  their  food,  is  upon  the 
keenness  of  their  scent,  while  the  fowls  of  the 
air  depend  mainly  upon  the  eye. 

A  hunter  out  in  Missouri  relates  how  closely 
a  deer  approached  him  one  day  in  the  woods. 
The  hunter  was  standing  on  the  top  of  a  log, 
about  four  feet  from  the  ground,  when  the  deer 
bounded  playfully  into  a  glade  in  the  forest,  a 
couple  of  hundred  yards  away.  The  animal 
began  to  feed  and  to  move  slowly  toward  the 
hunter.  He  was  on  the  alert,  but  did  not  see 
or  scent  his  enemy.      He  never  took  a  bite  of 


'   THE   WAYS   OF    SPORTSMEN  281 

grass,  says  the  sportsman,  without  first  putting 
his  nose  to  it,  and  then  instantly  raising  his 
head  and  looking  about. 

In  about  ten  minutes  the  deer  had  approached 
within  fifty  yards  of  the  gunner ;  then  the  mur- 
derous instinct  of  the  latter  began  to  assert  it- 
self. His  gun  was  loaded  with  fine  shot,  but 
he  dared  not  make  a  move  to  change  his  shells 
lest  the  deer  see  him.  He  had  one  shell  loaded 
with  Ko.  4  shot  in  his  pocket.  Oh!  if  he 
could  only  get  that  shell  into  his  gun. 

The  unsuspecting  deer  kept  approaching; 
presently  he  passed  behind  a  big  tree,  and  his 
head  was  for  a  moment  hidden.  The  hunter 
sprang  to  his  work;  he  got  one  of  the  :No  « 
shells  out  of  his  gun  and  got  his  hand  into  his 
pocket  and  a  hold  of  the  No.  4.  Then  the 
shining  eyes  of  the  deer  were  in  view  again. 
The  hunter  stood  in  this  attitude  five  minutes 
How  we  wish  he  had  been  compelled  to  stand 

for  five  hundred ! 

Then  another  tree  shut  off  the  buck's  gaze  for 
a  moment;  in  went  the  No.  4  shell  into  the 
barrel  and  the  gun  was  closed  quickly,  but 
there  was  no  time  to  bring  it  to  the  shoulder. 
The  animal  was  now  only  thirty  yards  away. 
His  hair  was  smooth  and  glossy,  and  every 
movement  was  full  of  grace  and  beauty.  Time 
after  time  he  seemed  to  look  straight  at  the 
hunter,  and  once  or  twice  a  look  of  suspicion 
seemed  to  cross  his  face. 

The  man  began  to  realize  how  painful  it  was 
to  stand  perfectly  stil]   on  tlie  top  of  a  log  for 


282  THE   WAYS   OF   SPORTSMEN 

fifteen  minutes.  Every  muscle  ached  and 
seemed  about  to  rebel  against  his  will.  If  the 
buck  held  to  his  course  he  would  pass  not  more 
than  fifteen  feet  to  one  side  of  the  gun,  and  the 
man  that  held  it  thought  he  might  almost  blow 
his  heart  out. 

There  was  one  more  tree  for  him  to  pass 
behind,  when  the  gun  could  be  raised.  He 
approached  the  tree,  rubbed  his  nose  against 
it,  and  for  a  moment  was  half  hidden  behind  it. 
When  his  head  appeared  on  the  other  side  the 
gun  was  pointed  straight  at  his  eye  —  and  with 
only  No.  4  shot,  which  could  only  wound  him, 
but  could  not  kill  him. 

The  deer  stops;  he  does  not  expose  his  body 
back  of  the  fore  leg,  as  the  hunter  had  wished. 
The  latter  begins  to  be  ashamed  of  himself,  and 
has  about  made  up  his  mind  to  let  the  beautiful 
creature  pass  unharmed,  when  the  buck  sud- 
denly gets  his  scent,  his  head  goes  up,  his  nos- 
trils expand,  and  a  look  of  terror  comes  over 
his  face.  This  is  too  much  for  the  good  reso- 
lutions of  the  hunter.  Bang!  goes  the  gun, 
the  deer  leaps  into  the  air,  wheels  around  a 
couple  of  times,  recovers  himself  and  is  off  in 
a  twinkling,  no  doubt  carrying,  the  narrator 
says,  a  hundred  No.  4  shot  in  his  face  and 
neck.  The  man  says:  "I've  always  regretted 
shooting  at  him." 

I  should  think  he  would.      But  a  man  in  the 
woods,  with  a  gun  in  his  hand,  is  no  longer  a 
man  —  he  is  a  brute.      The  devil  is  in  the  guu 
;0  make  brutes  of  us  all. 


THE   WAYS   OF   SPORTSMEN  283 

If  the  game  on  this  occasion  had  been,  say  a 
wild  turkey  or  a  grouse,  its  discriminating  eye 
would  have  figured  out  the  hunter  there  on  that 
log  very  quickly. 

This  manly  exploit  of  the  Western    hunter 
reminds  me  of  an  exploit  of  a  Brooklyn  man, 
who  last  winter  killed  a  bull  moose  in  Maine. 
It  was  a  more  sportsmanlike  proceeding,  but  my 
sympathies  were  entirely  with  the  moose.      The 
hero    tells    his    story   in    a  New  York    paper. 
With   his   guides,    all  armed  with  Winchester 
rifles,  he  penetrated  far  into  the  wilderness  till 
he  found  a  moose  yard.      It  was  near  the  top 
of  a  mountain. 

They  started  one  of    the  animals    and  then 

took  up  its  trail. 

As  soon  as  the  moose  found  it  was  being  fol- 
lowed, it  led  right  off  in  hopes  of  outwalking 
its  enemies.  But  they  had  snow-shoes  and  he 
did  not;  they  had  food  and  he  did  not.  On 
they  went,  pursued  and  pursuers,  through  the 
snow-clogged  wilderness,  day  after  day.  The 
moose  led  them  the  most  difficult  route  he  could 

find.  V   -1^ 

At  night  the  men  would  make  camp,  build  a 
fire,  eat  and  smoke,  and  roll  themselves  in  their 
blankets  and  sleep.  In  the  morning  they  would 
soon  come  up  to  the  camping  place  of  the  poor 
moose,  where  the  imprint  of  his  great  body 
showed  in  the  snow,  and  where  he  had  passed 
a  cold,  supperless  night. 

On  the  fifth  day  the  moose  began  to  show 
sicrns  of  fatigue ;  he  rested  often,  he  also  tried 


284  THE   WAYS   OF   SPORTSMEN 

to  get  around  and  behind  his  pursuers  and  let 
them  pass  on.  Think  how  inadequate  his  wit 
was  to  cope  w^ith  the  problem  —  he  thought 
they  would  pass  by  him  if  he  went  to  one  side. 

On  the  morning  of  the  sixth  day  he  had 
made  uj)  his  mind  to  travel  no  farther,  but  to 
face  his  enemies  and  have  it  out  with  them. 

As  he  heard  them  approach  he  rose  up  from 
his  couch  of  snow,  mane  erect,  his  look  fierce 
and  determined.  Poor  creature,  he  did  not 
know  how  unequal  the  contest  was.  How  I 
wish  he  could  at  that  moment  have  had  a  Win- 
chester rifle  too,  and  had  known  how  to  use  it. 
There  would  have  been  fair  play  then. 

With  such  weapons  as  God  had  given  him 
he  had  determined  tc>  meet  the  foe,  and  if  they 
had  had  only  such  weapons  as  God  had  given 
them,  he  would  have  been  safe.  But  they  had 
weapons  which  the  devil  had  given  them,  and 
their  deadly  bullets  soon  cut  him  down,  and 
now  probably  his  noble  antlers  decorate  the  hall 
of  his  murderer. 


TALKS   WITH   YOUNG   OBSERVERS 


To  teach  young  people  or  old  people  how  to 
observe  nature  is  a  good  deal  like  trying  to  teach 
them  how  to  eat  their  dinner.      The  first  thing 
necessary  in  the  latter  case  is  a  good  appetite; 
this  given,  the  rest  follows  very  easily.      And 
in  observing  nature,  unless  you  have  the  appe- 
tite, the  love,  the  spontaneous  desire,  you  will 
get  little  satisfaction.      It  is  the  heart  that  sees 
more  than  the  mind.    To  love  nature  is  the  first 
step  in  observing  her.      If  a  boy  had  to  learn 
fishing  as  a  task,  what  slow  progress  he  would 
make ;,  but  as  his  heart  is  in  it,  how  soon  he 
becomes  an  adept. 

The  eye  sees  quickly  and  easily  those  things 
in  which  we  are  interested.  A  man  interested 
in  horses  sees  every  fine  horse  in  the  country 
he  passes  through;  the  dairyman  notes  the  cat- 
tle; the  bee  culturist  counts  the  skips  of  bees; 
the  sheep-grower  notes  the  flocks,  etc.  Is  it 
any  efi'ort  for  the  ladies  to  note  the  new  bon- 
nets and  the  new  cloaks  upon  the  street?  ^^  e 
all  see  and  observe  easily  in  the  line  of  our 
business,  our  tasks,  our  desires. 

If  one  is  a  lover  of  the  birds,  he  sees  birds 
everywhere,  plenty  of  them.      I  think  I  seldom 


286   TALKS  WITH  YOUNG  OBSERVERS 

miss  a  bird  in  my  walk  if  he  is  within  eye  or 
ear  shot,  even  though  my  mind  be  not  intent 
upon  that  subject.  Walking  along  the  road 
this  very  day,  feeling  a  cold,  driving  snow- 
storm, I  saw  some  large  birds  in  the  top  of  a 
maple  as  I  passed  by.  I  do  not  know  how  I 
came  to  see  them,  for  I  was  not  in  an  ornitho- 
logical frame  of  mind.  But  I  did.  There 
were  three  of  them  feeding  upon  the  buds  of 
the  maple.  They  were  nearly  as  large  as  rob- 
ins, of  a  dark  ash  color,  very  plump,  with  tails 
much  forked.  What  were  they  1  My  neigh- 
bor did  not  know;  had  never  seen  such  birds 
before.  I  instantly  knew  them  to  be  pine 
grosbeaks  from  the  far  north.  I  had  not  seen 
them  before  for  ten  years.  A  few  days  pre- 
viously I  had  heard  one  call  from  the  air  as  it 
passed  over;  I  recognized  the  note,  and  hence 
knew  that  the  birds  were  about.  They  come 
down  from  the  north  at  irregular  intervals,  and 
are  seen  in  flocks  in  various  parts  of  the  States. 
They  seem  just  as  likely  to  come  mild  winters 
as  severe  ones.  Later  in  the  day  the  birds 
came  about  my  study.  I  sat  reading  with  my 
back  to  the  window  when  I  was  advised  of  their 
presence  by  catching  a  glimpse  of  one  reflected 
in  my  eye-glasses  as  it  flew  up  from  the  ground 
to  the  branch  of  an  apple-tree  only  a  few  feet 
away.  I  only  mention  the  circumstance  to 
show  how  quick  an  observer  is  to  take  the  hint. 
I  was  absorbed  in  my  reading,  but  the  moment 
that  little  shadow  flitted  athwart  that  luminous 
reflsction  of  the  window  in  the  corner  of  my 


TALKS    WITH    YOUNG   OBSERVERS       287 

glasses,  something  said  "that was  a  bird."  Ap- 
proaching the  window,  I  saw  several  of  them 
sitting  not  five  feet  away.  I  could  inspect 
them  perfectly.  They  were  a  slate  color,  with 
a  tinge  of  bronze  upon  the  head  and  rump.  In 
full  plumage  the  old  males  are  a  dusky  red. 
Hence  these  were  all  either  young  males  or  fe- 
males. Occasionally  among  these  flocks  an  old 
male  may  be  seen.  It  would  seem  as  if  only  a 
very  few  of  the  older  and  wiser  birds  accom- 
panied these  younger  birds  in  their  excursions 
into  more  southern  climes. 

Presently  the  birds  left  the  apple-bough  that 
nearly  brushed  my  window,  and,  with  a  dozen 
or  more  of  their  fellows  that  I  had  not  seen, 
settled  in  a  Norway  spruce  a  few  yards  away, 
and  began  to  feed  upon  the  buds.      They  looked 
very  pretty  there  amid    the  driving  snow.      I 
was  flattered  that  these  visitants  from  the  far 
north  should  find  entertainment  on  my  prem- 
ises.     How  plump,   contented,  and  entirely  at 
home  they  looked.      But  they  made  such  havoc 
with  the  spruce  buds  that  after  a  while  I  began 
to  fear  a  bud  would  not  be  left  upon  the  trees ; 
the  spruces  would  be  checked  in  their  growth 
the  next  year.      So  I  presently  went  out  to  re- 
monstrate with  them  and  ask  them  to  move  on. 
I  approached  them  very  slowly,  and  when  be- 
side the  tree  within  a  few  feet  of  several  of 
them,  they  heeded  me  not.      One  bird  kept  its 
position  and  went  on  snipping  ofi"  the  buds  till 
I  raised  my  hand  ready  to  seize  it,    before  it 
moved  a  yard  or  two  higher  up.     I  think  it  was 


288        TALKS    WITH    YOUNG    OBSERVERS 

only  my  white,  uncovered  hand  that  disturbed  it. 
Indeed, 

"  They  were  so  unacquainted  with  man, 
Their  tameness  was  shocking  to  see." 

The  snow  was  covered  with  the  yellow  chaflPy 
scales  of  the  buds  and  still  the  birds  sifted  them 
down,  till  I  was  compelled  to  "shoo"  them 
away,  when  they  moved  to  a  tree  nearer  the 
house  beneath  which  they  left  more  yellow 
chaff  upon  the  snow. 

The  mind  of  an  observer  is  like  a  gun  with 
a  hair  trigger  ~  it  goes  at  a  touch,  while  the 
minds  of  most  persons  require  very  vigorous 
nudging.  You  must  take  the  hint  and  take  it 
quickly  if  you  would  get  up  any  profitable  inti- 
macy with  nature.  Above  all,  don't  jump  to 
conclusions;  look  again  and  again;  verify  your 
observations.  Be  sure  the  crow  is  pulling  corn, 
and  not  probing  for  grubs,  before  you  kill  him. 
Be  sure  it  is  the  oriole  purloining  your  grapes, 
and  not  the  sparrows,  before  you  declare  them 
your  enemies.  I  one  day  saw  humming-birds 
apparently  probing  the  ripe  yellow  cheeks  of  my 
finest  peaches,  but  I  was  not  certain  till  I 
saw  a  bird  hovering  over  a  particular  peach,  and 
then  mounting  upon  a  ladder  I  examined  it, 
when  sure  enough,  the  golden  cheek  was  full  of 
pin-holes.  The  orioles  destroy  many  of  my 
earliest  pears,  but  it  required  much  watching  to 
catch  them  in  the  very  act.  I  once  saw  a 
phoebe-bird  swoop  down  upon  a  raspberry  bush 
and  carry  a  berry  to  a  rail  on  a  near  fence,  but 


TALKS  WITH  YOUNG  OBSERVERS    289 

I  did  not  therefore  jump  to  the  conchision  that 
the  phoebe  was  a  berry-eater.  What  it  wanted 
was  the  worm  in  the  berry.  How  do  I  know? 
Because  I  saw  it  extract  something  from  the 
berry  and  liy  away. 

A  French  missionary,  said  to  have  been  a 
good  naturalist,  writing  in  this  country  in  1634, 
makes  this  curious  statement  about  our  hum- 
ming-bird: "This  bird,  as  one  might  say,  dies, 
or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  puts  itself  to  sleep 
in  the  month  of  October,  living  fastened  to 
some  little  branchlet  of  a  tree  by  the  feet,  and 
wakes  up  in  the  month  of  April  when  the 
flowers  are  in  abundance,  and  sometimes  later, 
and  for  that  cause  is  called  in  the  Mexican 
tongue  the  "Revived."  How  could  the  good 
missionary  ever  have  been  led  to  make  such  a 
statement  1  The  actual  finding  of  the  bird  win- 
tering in  that  way  would  have  been  the  proof 
science  demands,  and  nothing  short  of  that. 

A  boy  in  the  interior  of  the  State  wrote  to 
me  the  other  day  that  while  in  the  field  looking 
after  Indian  arrow-heads  he  had  seen  a  brown 
and  gray  bird  with  a  black  mark  running 
through  the  eye,  and  that  the  bird  walked  in- 
stead of  hopped.  He  said  it  had  a  high,  shrill 
whistle  and  flew  like  a  meadow-lark.  This  boy 
is  a  natural  observer;  he  noted  that  the  bird 
was  a  walker.  Most  of  the  birds  hop  or  jump, 
keeping  both  feet  together.  This  boy  heard  his 
bird  afterward  in  the  edge  of  the  evening,  and 
"followed  it  quite  a  ways,  but  could  not  get  a 
glimpse  of  it. "     He  had  failed  to  note  the  crest 


290   TALKS  WITH  YOUNG  OBSERVERS 

on  its  head  and  the  black  spot  on  its  breast,  for 
doubtless  his  strange  bird  was  the  shore-lark,  a 
northern  bird,  that  comes  to  us  in  flocks  in  the 
late  fall  or  early  winter,  and  in  recent  years  has 
become  a  permanent  resident  of  certain  parts  of 
New  York  State.  I  have  heard  it  in  full  song 
above  the  hills  in  Delaware  County,  after  the 
manner  of  the  English  skylark,  but  its  song 
was  a  crude,  feeble,  broken  affair  compared  with 
that  of  the  skylark.  These  birds  thrive  well 
in  confinement.  I  had  one  seven  months  in  a 
cage  while  living  in  Washington.  It  was  dis- 
abled in  the  wing  by  a  gunner,  who  brought  it 
to  me.  Its  wound  soon  healed;  it  took  food 
readily;  it  soon  became  tame,  and  was  an  ob- 
ject of  much  interest  and  amusement.  The 
cage  in  which  I  had  hastily  put  it  was  formerly 
a  case  filled  with  stufi'ed  birds.  Its  front  was 
glass.  As  it  was  left  out  upon  the  porch  over 
night,  a  strange  cat  discovered  the  bird  through 
this  glass,  and  through  the  glass  she  plunged 
and  captured  the  bird.  In  the  morning  there 
was  the  large  hole  in  this  glass,  and  the  pretty 
lark  was  gone.  I  have  always  indulged  a  faint 
hope  that  the  glass  was  such  a  surprise  to  the 
cat,  and  made  such  a  racket  about  her  eyes  and 
ears  as  she  sprang  against  it,  that  she  beat  a 
hasty  retreat,  and  that  the  bird  escaped  through 
the  break. 

II 

In  May  two   boys  in  town  wrote  to  me  to 
explain  to  them  the  meaning  of  the  egg-shells, 


TALKS  WITH  YOUNG  OBSERVERS    291 

mostly  those  of  robins,  that  were  to  be  seen 
lying  about  on  the  ground  here  and  there.  1 
supposed  every  boy  knew  where  most  of  these 
egg-shells  came  from.  As  soon  as  the  young 
birds  are  out,  the  mother  bird  removes  the  frag- 
ments of  shells  from  the  nest,  carrying  them  in 
her  beak  some  distance,  and  dropping  them  here 
and  there.  All  our  song-birds,  so  far  as  I 
know,  do  this. 

Sometimes,  however,  these  shells  are  dropped 
by  blue-jays  after  their  contents  have  been 
swallowed.  The  jay  will  seize  a  robin's  egg  by 
thrusting  his  beak  into  it,  and  hurry  off  lest  he 
be  caught  in  the  act  by  the  owner.  At  a  safe 
distance  he  will  devour  the  contents  at  his  lei- 
sure, and  drop  the  shell. 

The  robins,  however,  have  more  than  once 
caught  the  jay  in  the  act.  He  has  the  reputa- 
tion among  them  of  being  a  sneak  thief.  Many 
and  many  a  time  during  the  nesting  season  you 
may  see  a  lot  of  robins  mob  a  jay.  The  jay 
comes  slyly  prowling  through  the  trees,  looking 
for  his  favorite  morsel,  when  he  is  discovered 
by  a  vigilant  robin,  who  instantly  rushes  at  him 
crying,  "Thief!  thief!  "  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 
All  the  robins  that  have  nests  within  hearing 
gather  to  the  spot  and  join  in  the  pursuit  of  the 
jay,  screaming  and  scolding. 

The  jay  is  hustled  out  of  the  tree  in  a  hurry, 
and  goes  sneaking  away  with  the  robins  at  his 
heels.  He  is  usually  silent,  like  other  thieves, 
but  sometimes  the  birds  make  it  so  hot  for  him 
that  he  screams  in  anger  and  disgust. 


292         TALKS    WITH   YOUNG   OBSERVERS 

Of  the  smaller  birds,  like  the  vireos  and 
warblers,  the  jay  will  devour  the  young. 

My  little  boy  one  day  saw  a  jay  sitting  be- 
side a  nest  in  a  tree,  probably  that  of  the  red- 
eyed  vireo,  and  coolly  swallowing  the  just- 
hatched  young,  while  the  parent  birds  were 
powerless  to  prevent  him.  They  flew  at  him 
and  snapped  their  beaks  in  his  face,  but  he 
heeded  them  not.  A  robin  would  have  knocked 
him  off  his  feet  at  her  first  dive. 

One  is  sometimes  puzzled  by  seeing  a  punc- 
tured egg  lying  upon  the  ground.  One  day  I 
came  near  stepping  upon  one  that  was  lying  in 
the  path  that  leads  to  the  spring  —  a  fresh  egg 
with  a  little  hole  in  it  carefully  placed  upon 
the  gravel.  I  suspected  it  to  be  the  work  of 
the  cowbird,  and  a  few  days  later  I  had  con- 
vincing proof  that  the  cowbird  is  up  to  this 
sort  of  thing.  I  was  sitting  in  my  summer 
house  with  a  book,  when  I  had  a  glimpse  of  a 
bird  darting  quickly  down  from  the  branches  of 
the  maple  just  above  me  toward  the  vineyard, 
with  something  in  its  beak.  Following  up  my 
first  glance  with  more  deliberate  scrutiny,  I 
saw  a  female  cowbird  alight  upon  the  ground 
and  carefully  deposit  some  small  object  there, 
and  then,  moving  a  few  inches  away,  remain 
quite  motionless.  Without  taking  my  eyes 
from  the  spot,  I  walked  straight  down  there. 
The  bird  Hew  away,  and  I  found  the  object  she 
had  dropped  to  be  a  little  speckled  bird's  egg 
still  warm.  I  saw  that  it  was  the  egg  of  the 
red-eyed   vireo.      It   was    punctured   with    two 


TALKS    WITH    YOUNG    OBSERVERS         295 

holes  where  the  bird  had  seized  it;  otherwise 
it  had  been  very  carefully  handled.  For  some 
days  I  had  been  convinced  that  a  pair  of  vireos 
had  a  nest  in  my  maple,  but  much  scrutiny  had 
failed  to  reveal  it  to  me. 

Only  a  few  moments  before  the  cowbird 
appeared  I  had  seen  the  happy  pair  leave  the 
tree  together,  flying  to  a  clump  of  trees  lower 
down  the  slope  of  the  hill.  The  female  had 
evidently  just  deposited  her  egg,  the  cowbird 
had  probably  been  watching  near  by,  and  had 
seized  it  the  moment  the  nest  was  vacated. 
Her  plan  was  of  course  to  deposit  one  of  her 
own  in  its  place. 

I  now  made  a  more  thorough  search  for  the 
nest,  and  soon  found  it,  but  it  was  beyond  my 
reach  on  an  outer  branch,  and  whether  or  not 
the  cowbird  dropped  one  of  her  own  eggs  in 
place  of  the  one  she  had  removed  I  do  not 
know.  Certain  am  I  that  the  vireos  soon 
abandoned  the  nest,  though  they  do  not  always 
do  this  when  hoodwinked  in  this  way. 

I  once  met  a  gentleman  on  the  train  who 
told  me  about  a  brood  of  quails  that  had 
hatched  out  under  his  observation.  He  was 
convinced  that  the  mother  quail  had  broken  the 
shells  for  the  young  birds.  He  sent  me  one  of 
the  shells  to  convince  me  that  it  had  been 
broken  from  the  outside. 

At  first  glance  it  did  appear  so.  It  had  been 
cut  around  near  the  large  end,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  small  space,  as  if  by  regular  thrusts  or 
taps  from  a  bird's  beak,  so  that  this  end  opened 


294       TALKS   WITH   YOUNG   OBSERVERS 

like  the  lid  of  a  box  on  a  hinge,  and  let  the  im- 
prisoned bird  escape.  What  convinced  the 
gentleman  that  the  force  had  been  applied  from 
the  outside  was  that  the  edges  of  the  cut  or 
break  were  bent  in. 

If  we  wish  rightly  to  interpret  nature,  to  get 
at  the  exact  truth  of  her  ways  and  doings,  we 
must  cultivate  what  is  called  the  critical  habit 
of  mind;  that  is,  the  habit  of  mind  that  does 
not  rest  with  mere  appearances.  One  must  sift 
the  evidence,  must  cross- question  the  facts. 
This  gentleman  was  a  lawyer,  but  he  laid  aside 
the  cunning  of  his  craft  in  dealing  with  this 
question  of  these  egg-shells. 

The  bending  in,  or  the  indented  appearance 
of  the  edge  of  the  shells  was  owing  to  the  fact 
that  the  thin  paper-like  skin  that  lines  the  in- 
terior of  the  shell  had  dried  and  shrunken,  and 
had  thus  drawn  the  edges  of  the  shell  inward. 
The  cut  was  made  by  the  beak  of  the  young 
bird,  probably  by  turning  its  head  from  right 
to  left;  one  little  point  it  could  not  reach,  anfl 
this  formed  the  hinge  of  the  lid  I  have  spoken 
of. 

Is  it  at  all  probable  that  if  the  mother  bird 
had  done  this  work  she  would  have  left  this 
hinge,  and  left  it  upon  every  egg,  since  the 
hinge  was  of  no  use  1  The  complete  removal 
of  the  cap  would  have  been  just  as  well. 

Neither  is  it  true  that  the  parent  bird  shoves 
its  young  from  the  nest  when  they  are  ready  to 
fly,  unless  it  be  in  the  case  of  doves  and  pi- 
geons.   Our  small  birds  certainly  do  not  do  this. 


TALKS   WITH   YOUNG   OBSERVERS        295 

The  young  birds  will  launch  out  of  their  own 
motion  as  soon  as  their  wings  will  sustain  thera, 
and  sometimes  before. 

There  is  usually  one  of  the  brood  a  little 
more  forward  than  its  mates,  and  this  one  is  the 
first  to  venture  forth.  In  the  case  of  the  blue- 
bird, chickadee,  highhole,  nuthatch,  and  others, 
the  young  are  usually  a  day  or  two  in  leaving 

the  nest. 

The  past  season  I  was  much  interested  in 
seeing  a  brood  of  chickadees,  reared  on  my 
premises,  venture  upon  their  first  flight.  Their 
heads  had  been  seen  at  the  door  of  their  dwell- 
ing —  a  cavity  in  the  limb  of  a  pear-tree  —  at 
intervals  for  two  or  three  days. 

Evidently  they  liked  the  looks  of  the  great 
outside  world;  and  one  evening,  just  before 
sundown,  one  of  them  came  forth.  His  first 
flight  was  of  several  yards  to  a  locust,  where  he 
alighted  upon  an  inner  branch,  and  after  some 
chirping  and  calling  proceeded  to  arrange  his 
plumage,  and  compose  himself  for  the  night. 

I  watched  him  till  it  Avas  nearly  dark.  He 
did  not  appear  at  all  afraid  there  alone  in  the 
tree,  but  put  his  head  under  his  wing  and  set- 
tled down  for  the  night  as  if  it  were  just  what 
he  had  always  been  doing.  There  was  a  heavy 
shower  a  few  hours  later,  but  in  the  morning 
he  was  there  upon  his  perch  in  good  spirits. 

I  happened  to  be  passing  in  the  morning 
when  another  one  came  out.  He  hopped  out 
upon  a  limb,  shook  himself,  and  chirped  and 
called   loudly.      After    some  moments  an   idea 


296   TALKS  WITH  YOUNG  OBSERVERS 

seemed  to  strike  him.  His  attitude  changed, 
his  form  straightened  up,  and  a  thrill  of  excite- 
ment seemed  to  run  through  him.  I  knew  what 
it  all  meant;  something  had  whispered  to  the 
bird,  "Fly!  "  With  a  spring  and  a  cry  he  was 
in  the  air,  and  made  good  headway  to  a  near 
hemlock. 

Others  left  in  a  similar  manner  during  that 
day  and  the  next,  till  all  were  out. 

Some  birds  seem  to  scatter  as  soon  as  they 
are  out  of  the  nest.  With  others  the  family 
keeps  together  the  greater  part  of  the  season. 
Among  birds  that  have  this  trait  may  be  named 
the  chickadee,  the  bluebird,  the  blue- jay,  the 
nuthatch,  the  kingbird,  the  phoebe-bird,  and 
others  of  the  true  flycatchers. 

One  frequently  sees  the  young  of  the  phcebe 
sitting  in  a  row  upon  a  limb,  while  the  parents 
feed  them  in  regular  order.  Twice  I  have  come 
upon  a  brood  of  young  but  fully  fledged  screech- 
owls  in  a  dense  hemlock  wood,  sitting  close  to- 
gether upon  a  low  branch.  They  stood  there 
like  a  row  of  mummies,  the  yellow  curtains  of 
their  eyes  drawn  together  to  a  mere  crack,  till 
they  saw  themselves  discovered. 

Then  they  all  changed  their  attitudes  as  if  an 
electric  current  had  passed  through  the  branch 
upon  which  they  sat.  Leaning  this  way  and 
that,  they  stared  at  me  like  frightened  cats  till 
the  mother  took  flight,  when  the  young  fol- 
lowed. 

The  family  of  chickadees  above  referred  to 
kept  in  the   trees  about  my  place  for  two  oi 


TALKS   WITH   YOUNG   OBSERVERS        297 

three  weeks.  They  hunted  the  same  feeding- 
ground  over  and  over,  and  always  seemed  to 
find  an  abundance.  The  parent  liirds  did  the 
hunting,  the  young  did  tlie  calling  and  the  eat- 
ing. At  any  hour  in  the  day  you  could  find 
the  troop  slowly  making  their  way  over  some 
part  of  their  territory. 

Later  in  the  season  one  of  the  parent  birds 
seemed  smitten  with  some  fatal  malady.  If 
birds  have  leprosy,  this  must  have  been  leprosy. 
The  poor  thing  dropped  down  through  a  maple- 
tree  close  by  the  house,  barely  able  to  flit  a  few 
feet  at  a  time.  Its  plumage  appeared  greasy 
and  filthy,  and  its  strength  was  about  gone.  I 
placed  it  in  the  branches  of  a  spruce-tree,  and 
never  saw  it  afterward. 


Ill 

A  boy  brought  me  a  dead  bird  the  other 
morning  which  his  father  had  picked  up  on  the 
railroad.  It  had  probably  been  killed  by  strik- 
ing the  telegraph  wires.  As  it  was  a  bird  the 
like  of  which  he  had  never  seen  before,  he 
wanted  to  know  its  name.  It  was  a  wee  bird, 
mottled  gray  and  brown  like  nearly  aU  our 
ground  birds,  as  the  sparrows,  the  meadow- 
larks,  the  quail:  a  color  that  makes  the  bird 
practically  invisible  to  its  enemies  in  the  air 
above.  Unlike  the  common  sparrows,  its  little 
round  wings  were  edged  with  yellow,  with  a 
tinge  of  yellow  on  its  shoulders;  hence  its 
name,  the  yellow- winged  sparrow.      It  has  also 


298        TALKS   WITH   YOUNG   OBSERVERS 

a  yellowish  line  over  the  eye.  It  is  by  no 
means  a  common  bird,  though  there  are  proba- 
bly few  farms  in  the  Middle  and  Eastern  States 
upon  which  one  could  not  be  found.  It  is  one 
of  the  birds  to  be  looked  for.  Ordinary  ob- 
servers do  not  see  it  or  hear  it. 

It  is  small,  shy,  in  every  way  inconspicu- 
ous. Its  song  is  more  like  that  of  an  insect 
than  that  of  any  other  of  our  birds.  If  you 
hear  in  the  fields  in  May  and  June  a  fine, 
stridulous  song  like  that  of  a  big  grasshopper, 
it  probably  proceeds  from  this  bird.  Move  in 
the  direction  of  it  and  you  will  see  the  little 
brown  bird  flit  a  few  yards  before  you.  For 
several  mornings  lately  I  have  heard  and  seen 
one  on  a  dry,  gravelly  hillock  in  a  field.  Each 
time  he  has  been  near  the  path  where  I  walk. 
Unless  your  ear  is  on  the  alert  you  will  miss 
his  song.  Amid  the  other  bird  songs  of  May 
heard  afield  it  is  like  a  tiny,  obscure  plant  amid 
tall,  rank  growths.  The  bird  affords  a  capital 
subject  for  the  country  boy,  or  town  boy,  either, 
when  he  goes  to  the  country,  to  exercise  his 
powers  of  observation  upon.  If  he  finds  this 
bird  he  will  find  a  good  many  other  interesting 
things.  He  may  find  the  savannah  sparrow 
also,  which  closely  resembles  the  bird  he  is 
looking  for.  It  is  a  trifle  larger,  has  more  bay 
about  the  wings,  and  is  more  common  toward 
the  coast.  Its  yellow  markings  are  nearly  the 
same.  There  is  also  a  variety  of  the  yellow- 
winged  sparrow  called  Henslow's  yellow-winged 
sparrow,  but  it  bears  so  close  a  resemblance  to 


TALKS  WITH  YOUNG  OBSERVERS   299 

the  first-named  that  it  requires  a  professional 
ornithologist  to  distinguish  them.  I  confess  I 
have  never  identified  it. 

I  never  see  the  yellow- wing  without  being  re- 
minded of  a  miniature  meadow-lark.  Its  short 
tail,  its  round  wings,  its  long  and  strong  legs 
and  feet,  its  short  beak,  its  mottled  coat,  the 
touch  of  yellow,  as  if  he  had  just  rubbed 
against  a  newly-opened  dandelion,  but  in  this 
case  on  the  wings  instead  of  on  the  breast,  the 
quality  of  its  voice,  and  its  general  shape  and 
habits,  all  suggest  a  tiny  edition  of  this  large 
emphatic  walker  of  our  meadows. 

The  song  of  this  little  sparrow  is  like  the 
words  "chick,  chick-a-su-su,"  uttered  with  a 
peculiar  buzzing  sound.  Its  nest  is  placed 
upon  the  ground  in  the  open  field,  with  four  or 
five  speckled  eggs.  The  eggs  are  rounder  and 
their  ground  color  whiter  than  the  eggs  of  other 
sparrows. 

I  do  not  know  whether  this  kind  walks  or 
hops.  This  would  be  an  interesting  point  for 
the  young  observer  to  determine.  All  the 
other  sparrows  known  to  me  are  hoppers,  but 
from  the  unusually  long  and  strong  legs  of  this 
species,  its  short  tail  and  erect  manner,  I  more 
than  half  suspect  it  is  a  walker.  If  so,  this 
adds  another  meadow-lark  feature. 

Let  the  young  observer  follow  up  and  iden- 
tify any  one  bird,  and  he  will  be  surprised  to 
find  how  his  love  and  enthusiasm  for  birds  will 
kindle.  He  will  not  stop  with  the  one  bird. 
Carlyle  wrote  in  a  letter  to  his  brother,  "  At- 


300        TALKS   WITH   YOUNG   OBSERVERS 

tempt  to  explain  what  you  do  know,  and  you 
already  know  something  more."  Bring  what 
powers  of  observation  you  already  have  to  bear 
upon  animate  nature,  and  already  your  powers 
are  increased.  You  can  double  your  capital 
and  more  in  a  single  season. 

The  first  among  the  less  common  birds  which 
I  identified  when  I  began  the  study  of  orni- 
thology was  the  red-eyed  vireo,  the  little  gray 
t)ird  with  a  line  over  its  eye  that  moves  about 
with  its  incessant  cheerful  warble  all  day,  rain 
or  shine,  among  the  trees,  and  it  so  fired  my 
enthusiasm  that  before  the  end  of  the  season 
I  had  added  a  dozen  or  more  (to  me)  new  birds 
to  my  list.  After  a  while  the  eye  and  ear  be- 
come so  sensitive  and  alert  that  they  seem  to 
see  and  hear  of  themselves,  and  like  sleepless 
sentinels  report  to  you  whatever  comes  within 
their  range.  Driving  briskly  along  the  road 
the  other  day,  I  saw  a  phoebe-bird  building  her 
nest  under  a  cliff  of  rocks.  I  had  but  a  glimpse, 
probably  two  seconds,  through  an  opening  in  the 
trees,  but  it  was  long  enough  for  my  eye  to 
take  in  the  whole  situation:  the  gray  wall  of 
rock,  the  flitting  form  of  the  bird  and  the  half- 
finished  nest  into  which  the  builder  settled. 
Yesterday,  May  7,  I  went  out  for  an  hour's 
walk  looking  for  birds'  nests.  I  made  a  tour 
of  some  orchards,  pastures  and  meadows,  but 
found  nothing,  and  then  came  home  and  found 
a  blue- jay's  nest  by  my  very  door.  How  did  I 
find  it?  In  the  first  place  my  mind  was  in- 
tent upon  nest  finding:   I  was  ripe  for  a  bird's 


TALKS    WITH   YOUNG   OBSERVERS        301 

iiest.  In  the  second  place  I  had  for  some  time 
suspected  that  a  pair  of  jays  were  nesting  or  in- 
tending to  nest  in  some  of  the  evergreens  about 
my  house;  a  pair  had  been  quite  familiar  about 
the  premises  for  some  weeks,  and  I  had  seen 
the  male  feed  the  female,  always  a  sure  sign 
that  the  birds  are  mated,  and  are  building  or 
ready  to  build.  Many  birds  do  this.  I  have 
even  seen  the  crow  feed  its  mate  in  April. 
Just  at  this  writing,  a  pair  of  chickadees  at- 
tracted my  attention  in  a  spruce-tree  in  front  of 
my  window.  One  of  them,  of  course  the  male, 
is  industriously  feeding  the  other.  The  female 
hops  about,  imitating  the  voice  and  manner  of 
a  young  bird,  her  wings  quivering,  her  cry 
plaintive,  while  the  male  is  very  busy  collecting 
some  sort  of  fine  food  out  of  the  just-bursting 
buds  of  the  tree.  Every  half  minute  or  so  he 
approaches  her  and  delivers  his  morsel  into  her 
beak.  I  should  know  from  this  fact  alone  that 
the  birds  have  a  nest  near  by.  The  truth  is,  it 
is  just  on  the  other  side  of  the  study  in  a  small 
cavity  in  a  limb  of  a  pear-tree.  The  female  is 
laying  her  eggs,  one  each  day  probably,  and  the 
male  is  making  life  as  easy  for  her  as  possible, 
by  collecting  all  her  food  for  her. 

Hence,  when  as  I  came  down  the  drive  and 
a  blue- jay  alighted  in  a  maple  near  me,  I 
paused  to  observe  him.  He  wiped  his  beak  on 
a  limb,  changed  his  position  a  couple  of  times, 
then  uttered  a  low  mellow  note.  The  voice  as 
of  a  young  jay,  tender  and  appealing,  came  out 
of  a  Norway  spruce  near  by.      The  cry  was  con- 


302   TALKS  WITH  YOUNG  OBSERVERS 

tinned,  when  the  bird  I  was  watching  flew  in 
amid  the  top  branches,  and  the  cry  became  still 
more  urgent  and  plaintive.  I  stepped  along  a 
few  paces  and  saw  the  birds,  the  female  stand- 
ing up  in  her  nest  and  the  male  feeding  her. 
The  nest  was  placed  in  a  sort  of  basket  formed 
by  the  whorl  of  up- curving  branches  at  the  top 
of  the  tree,  the  central  shaft  being  gone. 

It  contained  four  eggs  of  a  dirty  brownish- 
greenish  color.  As  I  was  climbing  up  to  it,  a 
turtle  dove  threw  herself  out  of  the  tree  and 
fluttered  to  the  ground  as  if  mortally  wounded. 
My  little  boy  was  looking  on,  and  seeing  the 
dove  apparently  so  helpless  and  in  such  distress, 
ran  to  see  "what  in  the  world  ailed  it."  It 
fluttered  along  before  him  for  a  few  yards,  and 
then  its  mate  appearing  upon  the  scene,  the  two 
flew  away,  much  to  the  surprise  of  the  boy. 
We  soon  found  the  doves'  nest,  a  shelf  of  twigs 
on  a  branch  about  midway  of  the  tree.  It  held 
two  young  birds  nearly  fledged.  How  they 
seemed  to  pant  as  they  crouched  there,  a  shape- 
less mass  of  down  and  feathers,  regarding  us! 
The  doves  had  been  so  sly  about  their  nesting 
that  I  had  never  suspected  them  for  a  moment. 
The  next  tree  held  a  robin's  nest,  and  the  nest 
of  a  purple  finch  is  probably  near  by.  One 
usually  makes  a  mistake  in  going  away  from 
home  to  look  for  birds'  nests.  Search  the  trees 
about  your  door. 

The  blue-jay  is  a  cruel  nest- robber,  but  this 
pair  had  spared  the  doves  in  the  same  tree,  and 
I  think  they  have  made  their  peace  with  the 


TALKS  WITH  YOUNG  OBSERVERS    303 

robins,  as  I  do  not  see  the  latter  hustling  them 
about  any  more.  Probably  they  want  to  stand 
well  with  their  neighbors,  anc«  so  go  away  from 
home  to  commit  their  robberies. 

IV 

If  a  new  bird  appears  in  my  neighborhood, 
my  eye  or  ear  reports  it  at  once.      One  April 
several  of  those  rare  thrushes, —Bicknell's  or 
Slide  Mountain  thrush  —  stopped  for  two  days 
in  my  currant-patch.      How  did   I    know?     I 
heard  their  song  as  I  went  about  the  place,  a  fine 
elusive  strain  unlike  that  of  any  other  thrush. 
To    locate    it    exactly    I    found    very  difficult. 
It  always  seemed  to  be  much  farther  off  than  it 
actually  was.      There   is   a   hush    and   privacy 
about  its  song  that  makes  it  unique.  _    It  has 
a  mild,  fluty  quality,  very  sweet,  but  m  a  sub- 
dued key.      It   is   a   bird   of   remote   northern 
mountain- tops,  and  its  song  seems  adjusted  to 
the  low,  thick  growths  of  such  localities. 

The  past  season  a  solitary  Great  Carolina 
wren  took  up  its  abode  in  a  bushy  land  near 
one  corner  of  my  vineyard.  It  came  late  m  the 
season,  near  the  end  of  August,  the  only  one  I 
had  ever  heard  north  of  the  District  of  Colum- 
bia. During  my  Washington  days,  many  years 
ago,  this  bird  was  one  of  the  most  notable  song- 
st'ers  observed  in  my  walks.  His  loud,  rolling 
whistle  and  warble,  his  jocund  calls  and  saluta- 
tions —  how  closely  they  were  blended  with  all 
my  associations   with  nature   on  the  Potomac. 


304       TALKS   WITH   YOUNG   OBSERVERS 

When,  therefore,  one  morning  my  ear  caught 
the  same  blithe,  ringing  voice  on  the  Hudson, 
be  assured  I  was  quickly  on  the  alert.  How  it 
brought  up  the  past.  How  it  reopened  a  chap- 
ter of  my  life  that  had  long  been  closed.  It 
stood  out  amid  other  bird  songs  and  calls  with 
a  distinctness  that  attracted  the  dullest  ears. 
Such  a  southern  Virginia  air  as  it  gave  to  that 
nook  by  the  river's  side ! . 

I  left  my  work  amid  the  grapes  and  went 
down  to  interview  the  bird.  He  peeped  at  me 
inquisitively  and  suspiciously  for  a  few  mo- 
ments from  a  little  clump  of  weeds  and  bushes, 
then  came  out  in  fuller  view,  and  finally  hopped 
to  the  top  of  a  grape-post,  drooped  his  wings 
and  tail,  lifted  up  his  head,  and  sung  and  war- 
bled his  best.  If  he  had  known  exactly  what 
I  came  for  and  had  been  intent  upon  doing  his 
best  to  please  me,  he  could  not  have  succeeded 
better. 

The  Great  Carolina  wren  is  a  performer  like 
the  mocking-bird,  and  is  sometimes  called  the 
mocking  wren.  He  sings  and  acts  as  well. 
He  seems  bent  on  attracting  the  attention  of 
somebody  or  something.  A  Southern  poet  has 
felicitously  interpreted  certain  notes  by  the 
words,  "Sweetheart,  sweetheart,  sweet." 

Day  after  day  and  week  after  week,  till  the 
frosts  of  the  late  October  came,  the  bird  tarried 
in  that  spot,  confining  his  wanderings  to  a  very 
small  area  and  calling  and  warbling  at  all  hours. 
From  my  summer-liouse  I  could  often  hear  his 
voice  rise  up  from  under  the  hill,  seeming  to 


TALKS  WITH  YOUNG  OBSERVERS    305 

fill  all  the  space  down  there  with  sound.  'NMiat 
brought  this  solitary  bird  there,  so  far  from 
the  haunts  of  his  kind,  I  know  not.  ^[aybe 
he  was  simply  spying  out  the  land,  and  will 
next  season  return  with  his  mate.  Mocking- 
birds have  wandered  north  as  far  as  Connecticut, 
and  were  found  breeding  there  by  a  collector, 
who  robbed  them  of  their  eggs.  The  mocking 
wren  would  be  a  great  acquisition  to  our  North- 
ern river  banks  and  bushy  streams.  It  is  the 
largest  of  our  Avrens,  and  in  the  volume  and 
variety  of  its  notes  and  the  length  of  its  song 
season  surpasses  all  others. 

A  lover  of  nature  never  takes  a  walk  without 
perceiving  something  new  and  interesting.  All 
life  in  the  winter  woods  or  fields  as  revealed 
upon  the  snow,  how  interesting  it  is.  I  re- 
cently met  a  business  man  who  regularly  goes 
camping  to  the  Maine  woods  every  winter  from 
the  delight  he  has  in  various  signs  of  wild  life 
written  upon  the  snow.  His  morning  paper, 
he  says,  is  the  sheet  of  snow  which  he  reads  in 
his  walk.  Every  event  is  chronicled,  every 
new  arrival  registers  his  name,  if  you  have  eyes 
to  read  it! 

In  December  my  little  boy  and  I  took  our 
skates  and  went  a  mile  distant  from  home  into 
the  woods  to  a  series  of  long,  still  pools  in  a 
wild,  rocky  stream  for  an  hour's  skating. 
There  was  a  light  skim  of  snow  upon  the  ice, 
but  not  enough  to  seriously  interfere  with  our 
sport,  while  it  was  ample  to  reveal  the  course 
of  every  wild  creature  that  had  passed  the  night 


306        TALKS    WITH    YOUNG    OBSERVERS 

before.      Here  a  fox  had  crossed,  there  a  rabbit 
or  a  squirrel  or  muskrat. 

Presently  we  saw  a  different  track  and  a 
strange  one.  The  creature  that  made  it  had 
come  out  of  a  hole  in  the  ground  about  a  yard 
from  the  edge  of  the  long,  narrow  pool  upon 
which  we  were  skating,  and  had  gone  up  the 
stream,  leaving  a  track  upon  the  snow  as  large 
as  that  of  an  ordinary  sized  dog,  but  of  an  en- 
tirely different  character. 

We  had  struck  the  track  of  an  otter,  a  rare 
animal  in  the  Hudson  River  Valley;  in  fact, 
rare  in  any  part  of  the  State.  We  followed  it 
with  deep  interest;  it  threw  over  the  familiar 
stream  the  air  of  some  remote  pool  or  current  in 
the  depths  of  the  Adirondacks  or  the  Maine 
woods.  Every  few  rods  the  otter  had  appar- 
ently dropped  upon  his  belly  and  drawn  himself 
along  a  few  feet  by  his  fore  paws,  leaving  a 
track  as  if  a  log  or  bag  of  meal  had  been  drawn 
along  there.  He  did  this  about  every  three 
rods. 

At  the  head  of  the  pool  where  the  creek  was 
open  and  the  water  came  brawling  down  over 
rocks  and  stones,  the  track  ended  on  the  edge 
of  the  ice;  the  otter  had  taken  to  the  water. 
A  cold  bath,  one  would  say,  in  mid-December, 
but  probably  no  colder  to  him  than  the  air,  as 
his  coat  is  perfectly  water- proof. 

On  another  pool  further  up  the  track  reap- 
peared and  was  rubbed  out  here  and  there  by 
the  same  heavy  dragging  in  the  snow,  like  a 
chain  with  a  long  solid  bar  at  regular  distances 


TALKS    WITH    YOUNG   OBSERVERS        307 

ill  place  of  links.  At  one  point  the  otter  had 
gone  ashore  and  scratched  a  little  upon  the 
ground.  He  had  gone  from  pool  to  pool,  tak- 
ing the  open  rapids  wherever  they  appeared. 

The  otter  is  a  large  mink  or  weasel,  three 
feet  or  more  long  and  very  savage.  It  feeds 
upon  fish,  which  it  seems  to  capture  with  ease. 
It  is  said  that  it  will  track  them  through  the 
water  as  a  hound  tracks  a  fox  on  land.  It  will 
travel  a  large  distance  under  the  ice,  on  a  single 
breath  of  air.  Every  now  and  then  it  will  ex- 
hale this  air,  which  will  form  a  large  bubble 
next  the  ice,  where  in  a  few  moments  it  be- 
comes purified  and  ready  to  be  taken  into  the 
creature's  lungs  again.  If  by  any  accident  the 
bubble  were  to  be  broken  up  and  scattered, 
the  otter  might  drown  before  he  could  collect 
it  together  again.  A  man  who  lived  near  the 
creek  said  the  presence  of  the  otter  accounted 
for  the  scarcity  of  the  fish  there. 


The  other  day  one  of  my  farmer  neighbors 
asked  me  if  I  had  seen  the  new  bird  that  was 
about.  This  man  was  an  old  hunter,  and  had 
a  sharp  eye  for  all  kinds  of  game,  but  he  had 
never  before  seen  the  bird,  which  was  nearly  as 
large  as  a  robin,  of  a  dull  blue  or  slate  color 
marked  with  white. 

Another  neighbor,  who  was  standing  by,  said 
the  bird  had  appeared  at  his  house  the  day  be- 
fore.     A  cage  with   two  canaries  was  hanging 


308   TALKS  WITH  YOUNG  OBSERVERS 

against  the  window,  when  suddenly  a  large  bird 
swooped  down  as  if  to  dash  himself  against  it; 
but  arresting  himself  when  near  the  glass,  he 
hovered  a  moment,  eying  the  birds,  and  then 
flew  to  a  near  tree. 

The  poor  canaries  were  so  frightened  that 
they  fell  from  their  perches  and  lay  panting 
upon  the  floor  of  their  cage. 

No  one  had  ever  seen  the  bird  before;  what 
was  it?  It  was  the  shrike,  who  thought  he 
was  sure  of  a  dinner  when  he  saw  those  cana- 
ries. 

If  you  see,  in  late  autumn  or  winter,  a  slim, 
ashen-gray  bird,  in  size  a  little  less  than  the 
robin,  having  white  markings,  flying  heavily 
from  point  to  point,  and  always  alighting  on  the 
topmost  branch  of  a  tree,  you  may  know  it  is 
the  shrike. 

He  is  very  nearly  the  size  and  color  of  the 
mocking-bird,  but  with  flight  and  manners  en- 
tirely difl'erent.  There  is  some  music  in  his 
soul,  though  his  murderous  beak  nearly  spoils  it 
in  giving  it  forth. 

One  winter  morning,  just  at  sunrise,  as  I  was 
walking  along  the  streets  of  a  city,  I  heard  the 
shrike's  harsh  warble.  Looking  about  me,  I 
soon  saw  the  bird  perched  upon  the  topmost 
twig  of  a  near  tree,  saluting  the  sunrise.  It 
was  what  the  robin  might  have  done,  but  the 
strain  had  none  of  the  robin's  melody. 

Some  have  compared  the  shrike's  song  to  the 
creaking  of  a  rusty  gate-hinge,  but  it  is  not 
quite  so  bad  as  that.      Still  it  is  unmistakably 


TALKS  WITH  YOUNG  OBSERVERS   309 

the  voice  of  a  savage.      None  of  the  birds  of 
prey  have  musical  voices. 

The  shrike  had  probably  come  to  town  to  try 
his  luck  with  English  sparrows.  I  do  not  know 
that  he  caught  any,  but  in  a  neighboring  city  I 
heard  of  a  shrike  that  made  great  havoc  with 
the  sparrows. 

VI 

When  nature  made    the  flying  squirrel    she 
seems  to  have  whispered  a  hint  or  promise  of 
the   same   gift   to   the   red   squirrel.      At   least 
there  is  a  distinct  suggestion  of  the  same  power 
in    the    latter.      When    hard    pressed    the    red 
squirrel  will  trust  himself  to  the  air  with  the 
same  faith  that  the  flying  squirrel  does,  but,  it 
must  be  admitted,  with  only  a  fraction  of  the 
success  of  the  latter.      He  makes  himself  into  a 
rude  sort  of  parachute,  which  breaks  the  force 
of  his  fall  very  much.      The  other  day  my  dog 
ran  one  up  the  side  of  the  house,  through  the 
woodbine,    upon   the   roof.      As   I   opened  fire 
upon  him  with  handfuls  of  gravel,  to  give  him 
to  understand  he  was    not  welcome   there,   he 
boldly  launched  out  into  the  air  and  came  down 
upon  the  gravel  walk,  thirty  feet  below,  with 
surprising  lightness  and  apparently  without  the 
least  shock  or  injury,  and  was  oft'  in  an  instant 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  dog.      On  another  occa- 
sion I  saw  one  leap  from  the  top  of  a  hickory 
tree  and  fall  through  the  air  at  least  forty  feet 
and  alight  without   injury.      During  their  de- 
scent upon  such  occasions  their  legs  are  widely 


310   TALKS  WITH  YOUNG  OBSERVERS 

extended,  their  bodies  are  broadened  and  flat- 
tened, the  tail  stiffened  and  slightly  curved,  and 
a  curious  tremulous  motion  runs  through  all. 
It  is  very  obvious  that  a  deliberate  attempt  is 
made  to  present  the  broadest  surface  possible  to 
the  air,  and  I  think  a  red  squirrel  might  leap 
from  almost  any  height  to  the  ground  without 
serious  injury.  Our  flying  squirrel  is  in  no 
proper  sense  a  flyer.  On  the  ground  he  is  more 
helpless  than  a  chipmunk  because  less  agile. 
He  can  only  sail  or  slide  down  a  steep  incline 
from  the  top  of  one  tree  to  the  foot  of  another. 
The  flying  squirrel  is  active  only  at  night; 
hence  its  large,  soft  eyes,  its  soft  fur  and  its 
gentle,  shrinking  ways.  It  is  the  gentlest  and 
most  harmless  of  our  rodents.  A  pair  of  them 
for  two  or  three  successive  years  had  their  nest 
behind  the  blinds  of  an  upper  Avindow  of  a 
large,  unoccu^Died  country  house  near  me.  You 
could  stand  in  the  room  inside  and  observe  the 
happy  family  through  the  window  pane  against 
which  their  nest  pressed.  There  on  the  win- 
dow sill  lay  a  pile  of  large,  shining  chestnuts, 
which  they  were  evidently,  holding  against  a 
time  of  scarcity,  as  the  pile  did  not  diminish 
while  I  observed  them.  The  nest  was  com- 
posed of  cotton  and  wool  which  they  filched 
from  a  bed  in  one  of  the  chambers,  and  it  was 
always  a  mystery  how  they  got  into  the  room 
to  obtain  it.  There  seemed  to  be  no  other 
avenue  but  the  chimney  flue. 

There  are  always  gradations  in  nature,  or  in 
natural    life;    no    very   abrupt   departures.      If 


TALKS  WITH  YOUNG  OBSERVERS    311 

you  find  any  marked  trait  or  gift  in  a  species 
you  will  find  hints  and  suggestions  of  it,  or  as 
it  Avere,  preliminary  studies  of  it,  in  other  allied 
species.      I  am  not  thinking  of  the  law  of  evo- 
lution which  binds  together  the  animal  life  of 
the  globe,  but  of  a  kind  of  overflow  in  nature 
which  carries  any  marked  endowment  or  charac- 
teristic of  a  species  in  lessened  force  or  comple- 
tion to  other  surrounding  species.      Or  if  looked 
at  from  the  other  way,  a  progressive  series,  the 
idea  being  more  and  more  fully  carried  out  in 
each  succeeding  type  —  a  kind  of   lateral  and 
secondary  evolution.      Thus  there  are  progres- 
sive series  among  our  song-birds.      The  brown 
thrasher  is  an  advance  upon  the  catbird  and  the 
mocking   bird  is  an  advance   upon   the   brown 
thrasher  in  the  same  direction.      Each  one  car- 
ries the  special  gift  of  song  or  mimicking  some 
stages   forward.      The   same   among   the   larks, 
through  the  titlark,  shore-lark,  up  to  the  crown- 
ing triumph  of  the  skylark.      The  nightingale 
also    finishes    a    series    Avhich    starts  with    the 
hedge    warbler,    and    includes    the    robin    red- 
breast.     Our    ground- sparrow    songs     probably 
reach  their  highest  perfection  in  the  song  of  the 
fox-sparrow;  our  finches  in  that  of  the  purple 
finch,  etc. 

The  same  thing  may  be  observed  in  other 
fields.  The  idea  of  the  flying  fish,  the  fish  that 
leaves  the  water  and  takes  for  a  moment  to  the 
air,  does  not  seem  to  have  exhausted  itself  till 
we  reach  the  walking  fisli  of  tropical  America, 
or  the  tree-climbing  fish  of  India.      From  the 


312   TALKS  WITH  YOUNG  OBSERVERS 

protective  coloring  of  certain  insects,   animals, 
and  birds  the  step  is  not  far  to  actual  mimicry 
of  certain  special  forms  and  colors.      The  natu- 
ralists find  in  Java  a  spider  that  exactly  copies 
upon  a  leaf  the  form  and  colors  of  bird  drop- 
pings.     How  many  studies  of  honey-gathering 
bees  did  nature  make  before  she  achieved  her 
masterpiece  in  this  line  in  the  honey-bee  of  our 
hives?     The  skunk's  peculiar  weapon  of  defense 
is  suggested  by  the  mink  and  the  weasel.      Is 
not  the  beaver  the  head  of  the  series  of  gnawers, 
the  loon  of  divers,  the  condor  of  soarers  ?     Al- 
ways one  species  that  goes  beyond  any  other. 
Look  over  a  collection  of  African  animals  and 
see  how  high  shouldered  they  are,  how  many 
hints  or  prophecies  of  the  giraffe  there  are  before 
the  giraffe  is  reached.      After  nature  had  made 
the   common  turtle,    of  course   she    w^ould   not 
stop  till  she  had  made  the    box  tortoise.      In 
him  the  idea  is  fully  realized.      On  the  body  of 
the  porcupine  the  quills  are  detached  and  stuck 
into   the  flesh  of  its  enemy  on  being  touched; 
but  nature  has  not  stopped  here.     With  the  tail 
the   animal  strikes  its  quills  into  its  assailant. 
Now  if  some  animal  could  be  found  that  actually 
threw  its  quills,  at  a  distance  of  several  feet, 
the  idea  would  be  still  further  carried  out. 

The  rattlesnake  is  not  the  only  rattler.  I 
have  seen  the  black  snake  and  the  harmless  lit- 
tle garter  snake  vibrate  their  tails  when  dis- 
turbed in  precisely  the  same  manner.  The 
black  snake's  tail  was  in  contact  with  a  dry  leaf, 
and  it  gave  forth  a  loud  humming  sound  which 
at  once  put  me  on  the  alert. 


TALKS  WITH  YOUNG  OBSERVERS    313 

I  met  a  little  mouse  in  my  travels  the  other 
day  that  interested  me.  He  was  on  his  travels 
also,  and  we  met  in  the  middle  of  a  mountain 
lake.  I  was  casting  my  fly  there  when  I  saw 
just  sketched  or  etched  upon  the  glassy  surface 
a  delicate  V-shaped  figure,  the  point  of  whicli 
reached  about  the  middle  of  the  lake,  while  the 
two  sides  as  they  diverged  faded  out  toward  the 
shore.  I  saw  the  point  of  this  V  was  being 
slowly  pushed  toward  the  opposite  shore.  I 
drew  near  in  my  boat,  and  beheld  a  little  mouse 
swimming  vigorously  for  the  opposite  shore. 
His  little  legs  appeared  like  swiftly  revolving 
wheels  beneath  him.  As  I  came  near  he  dived 
under  the  water  to  escape  me,  but  came  up 
again  like  a  cork  and  just  as  quickly.  It  was 
laughable  to  see  him  repeatedly  duck  beneath 
the  surface  and  pop  back  again  in  a  twinkling. 
He  could  not  keep  under  water  more  than  a 
second  or  two.  Presently  I  reached  him  my 
oar,  when  he  ran  up  it  and  into  the  palm  of  my 
hand,  where  he  sat  for  some  time  and  arranged 
his  fur  and  warmed  himself.  He  did  not  show 
the  slightest  fear.  It  was  probably  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  shaken  hands  with  a  human 
being.  He  was  what  we  call  a  meadow  mouse, 
but  he  had  doubtless  lived  all  his  life  in  the 
woods  and  was  strangely  unsophisticated.  How 
his  little  round  eyes  did  shine,  and  how  he 
sniffed  me  to  find  out  if  I  was  more  dangerous 
than  I  appeared  to  his  sight. 

After  a  while  I  put  him  down  in  the  bottom 
of  the  boat  and  resumed  my  fishing.      But  it 


314   TALKS  WITH  YOUNG  OBSERVERS 

was  not  long  before  he  became  very  restless 
and  evidently  wanted  to  go  about  his  business. 
He  would  climb  up  to  the  edge  of  the  boat  and 
peer  down  into  the  water.  Finally  he  could 
brook  the  delay  no  longer  and  plunged  boldly 
overboard,  but  he  had  either  changed  his  mind 
or  lost  his  reckoning,  for  he  started  back  in  the 
direction  he  had  come,  and  the  last  I  saw  of 
him  he  was  a  mere  speck  vanishing  in  the 
shadows  near  the  other  shore. 

Later  on  I  saw  another  mouse  while  we  were 
at  work  in  the  fields  that  interested  me  also. 
This  one  was  our  native  white-footed  mouse. 
We  disturbed  the  mother  with  her  young  in 
her  nest  and  she  rushed  out  with  her  little  ones 
clinging  to  her  teats.  A  curious  spectacle  she 
presented  as  she  rushed  along,  as  if  slit  and 
torn  into  rags.  Her  pace  was  so  precipitate 
that  two  of  the  young  could  not  keep  their 
hold  and  were  left  in  the  weeds.  We  remained 
quiet  and  presently  the  mother  came  back  look- 
ing for  them.  When  she  had  found  one  she 
seized  it  as  a  cat  seizes  her  kitten  and  made  off 
with  it.  In  a  moment  or  two  she  came  back 
and  found  the  other  one  and  carried  it  away. 
I  was  curious  to  see  if  the  young  would  take 
hold  of  her  teats  again  as  at  first  and  be  dragged 
away  in  that  manner,  but  they  did  not.  It 
would  be  interesting  to  know  if  they  seize  hold 
of  their  mother  by  instinct  when  danger  threat- 
ens, or  if  they  simply  retain  the  hold  which 
they  already  have.  I  believe  the  flight  of  the 
family  always  takes  place  in  this  manner,  with 
this  species  of  mouse. 


TALKS   WITH    YOUNG   OHSEKVEKS        315 


VII 


The  other  day  I  was  walking  in  the  silent, 
naked  April  woods  when  I  said  to  myself, 
"There  is  nothing  in  the  woods." 

I  sat  down  upon  a  rock.      Then  I  lifted  up 
my  eyes  and  beheld  a  newly  constructed  crow's 
nest  in  a  hemlock  tree  near  by.      The  nest  was 
but  little  above  the  level  of  the  top  of  a  ledge 
of  rocks  only  a  few  yards  away  that  crowned 
the  rim  of  the  valley.      But  it  was  placed  be- 
hind the  stem  of  the  tree  from  the  rocks,  so  as 
to    be   secure    from   observation  on    that    side. 
The  crow  evidently  knew  what  she  was  about. 
Presently  I  heard  what  appeared  to  be  the  voice 
of  a  young  crow  in   the   treetops   not  far   oft\ 
This  I  knew  to  be  the  voice  of  the  female,  and 
that  she  was  being  fed  by  the  male.      She  was 
probably  laying,  or  about  beginning  to  lay,  eggs 
in   the   nest.      Crows,   as  well   as  most  of  our 
smaller  birds,  always  go  through  the  rehearsal 
of  this  act  of  the  parent  feeding  the  young  many 
times  while  the  young  are  yet  a  long  way  in  tlie 
future.     The  mother  bird  seems  timid  and  baby- 
ish, and  both  in  voice  and  manner  assumes  the 
character  of  a  young  fledgling.    The  male  brings 
the  food  and  seems  more  than  usually  solicitous 
about    her    welfare.      Is    it    to     conserve    her 
strength  or  to  make  an  impression  on  the  devel- 
oping eggs  1     The  same  thing  may  be  observed 
among  the  domestic  pigeons,   and  is   always  a 
sign  that  a  new  brood  is  not  far  off. 

When  the  young  do  come  the  female  is  usu- 


316        TALKS   WITH   YOUNG   OBSERVERS 

ally  more  active  in  feeding  them  than  the  male. 
Among  the  birds  of  prey,  like  hawks  and  eagles, 
the  female  is  the  larger  and  more  powerful,  and 
therefore  better  able  to  defend  and  to  care  for 
her  young.  Among  all  animals,  the  affection 
of  the  mother  for  her  offspring  seems  to  be 
greater  than  that  of  her  mate,  though  among 
the  birds  the  male  sometimes  shows  a  super- 
abundance of  paternal  regard  that  takes  in  the 
young  of  other  species.  Thus  a  correspondent 
sends  me  this  curious  incident  of  a  male  blue- 
bird and  some  young  vireos.  A  pair  of  blue- 
birds were  rearing  their  second  brood  in  a  box 
on  the  porch  of  my  correspondent,  and  a  pair 
of  vireos  had  a  nest  with  young  in  some  lilac 
bushes  but  a  few  feet  away.  The  writer  had 
observed  the  male  bluebird  perch  in  the  lilacs 
near  the  young  vireos,  and,  he  feared,  with  mur- 
derous intent.  On  such  occasions  the  mother 
vireo  would  move  among  the  upper  branches 
much  agitated.  If  she  grew  demonstrative  the 
bluebird  would  drive  her  away.  One  after- 
noon the  observer  pulled  away  the  leaves  so  as 
to  have  a  full  view  of  the  vireo 's  nest  from  the 
seat  where  he  sat  not  ten  feet  away.  Presently 
he  saw  the  male  bluebird  come  to  the  nest 
with  a  worm  in  its  beak,  and,  as  the  young  vir- 
eos stretched  up  their  gaping  mouths,  he 
dropped  the  worm  into  one  of  them.  Then  he 
reached  over  and  waited  upon  one  of  the  young 
birds  as  its  own  mother  would  have  done.  A 
few  moments  after  he  came  to  his  own  brood, 
with  a  worm  or  insect,  and  then  the  next  trip 


TALKS    WITH   YOUNG   OBSERVERS        317 

he  visited  the  nest  of  the  neighbor  again,  greatly 
to  the  displeasure  of  the  vireo,  who  scolded  him 
sharply  as  she  watched  his  movements  from  a 
near  branch.  My  correspondent  says:  "I 
watched  them  for  several  days;  sometimes  the 
bluebird  would  visit  his  own  nest  several  times 
before  lending  a  hand  to  the  vireos.  Some- 
times he  resented  the  vireos'  plaintive  fault-find- 
ing and  drove  them  away.  I  never  saw  tlie 
female  bluebird  near  the  vireos'  nest." 

That  the  male  bird  should  be  broader  in  his 
sympathies  and  affections  will  not,  to  most  men 
at  least,  seem  strange. 

Another  correspondent  relates  an  equally  cu- 
rious incident  about  a  wren  and  some  young 
robins.  "One  day  last  summer,"  he  says, 
"while  watching  a  robin  feeding  her  young,  I 
was  surprised  to  see  a  wren  alight  on  the  edge 
of  the  nest  in  the  absence  of  the  robin,  and  de- 
posit a  little  worm  in  the  throat  of  one  of  the 
young  robins.  It  then  flew  off  about  ten  feet, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  it  would  almost  burst  with 
excessive  volubility.  It  then  disappeared,  and 
the  robin  came  and  went,  just  as  the  wren  re- 
turned with  another  worm  for  the  young  robins. 
This  was  kept  up  for  an  hour.  Once  they  ar- 
rived simultaneously,  when  the  wren  "svas  ap- 
parently much  agitated,  but  waited  impatiently 
on  its  previous  perch,  some  ten  feet  off,  until 
the  robin  had  left,  when  it  visited  the  nest  as 
before.  I  climbed  the  tree  for  a  closer  inspec- 
tion and  found  only  a  well-regulated  robin 
household,  but  nowhere  a  wren's  nest.      After 


318   TALKS  WITH  YOUNG  OBSERVERS 

coming  down  I  walked  around  the  tree  and  dis- 
covered a  hole,  and  upon  looking  in  saw  a  nest 
of  sleeping  featherless  wrens.  At  no  time 
while  I  was  in  the  vicinity  had  the  wren  vis- 
ited these  little  ones." 

Of  all  our  birds,  the  wren  seems  the  most 
overflowing  with  life  and  activity.  Probably 
in  this  instance  it  had  stuffed  its  own  young  to 
repletion,  when  its  own  activity  bubbled  over 
into  the  nest  of  its  neighbor.  It  is  well  known 
that  the  male  wren  frequently  builds  what  are 
called  "  cock-nests. "  It  is  simply  so  full  of  life 
and  joy  and  of  the  propagating  instinct,  that 
after  the  real  nest  is  completed,  and  while  the 
eggs  are  being  laid,  it  gives  vent  to  itself  in 
constructing  these  sham,  or  cock-nests.  I  have 
found  the  nest  of  the  marsh-wren  surrounded 
by  half  a  dozen  or  more  of  these  make-believers. 
The  gushing  ecstatic  nature  of  the  bird  ex- 
presses itself  in  this  way. 

I  have  myself  known  but  one  instance  of  a 
bird  lending  a  hand  in  feeding  young  not  its 
own.  This  instance  is  to  be  set  down  to  the 
credit  of  a  female  English  sparrow.  A  little 
"chippie  "  had  on  her  hands  the  task  of  supply- 
ing the  wants  of  that  horse-leech,  young  cow- 
bunting.  The  sparrow  looked  on  from  its  perch 
a  few  yards  away,  and  when  the  chippie  was  off 
looking  up  food,  it  would  now  and  then  bring 
something  and  place  it  in  the  beak  of  the  clam- 
orous bunting.  I  think  the  "chippie"  appre- 
ciated its  good  offices.  Certainly  its  dusky 
foster-child  did.      This  bird,  when  young,  seems 


TALKS    WITH   YOUNG   OBSKRVERS        319 

the  most  greedy  of  all  fledgelings.  It  cries 
"More,"  "More,"  incessantly.  When  its 
foster  parent  is  a  small  bird  like  "chippie"  or 
one  of  the  warblers,  one  would  think  it  would 
swallow  its  parent  when  food  is  brought  it. 
I  suppose  a  similar  spectacle  is  witnessed  in 
England  when  the  cuckoo  is  brought  up  by  a 
smaller  bird,  as  is  always  the  case.  Sings  the 
fool  in  "  Lear  " :  — 

"  The  hedge-sparrow  fed  the  cuckoo  so  long, 
Tliat  it  had  its  head  bit  off  by  its  young." 

Last  season  I  saw  a  cow-bunting  fully  grown 
following  a  "chippie"  sparrow  about,  clamoring 
for  food,  and  really  looking  large  enough  to  bite 
off  and  swallow  the  head  of  its  parent,  and  ap- 
parently hungry  enough  to  do  it.  The  "  chip- 
pie "  was  evidently  trying  to  shake  it  ofif  and 
let  it  shift  for  itself,  for  it  avoided  it  and  flew 
from  point  to  point  to  escape  it.  Its  life  was 
probably  made  wretched  by  the  greedy  monster 
it  had  unwittingly  reared. 


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